Sentimental  Studies 

A  Set  of 
Village  Tales 

i 


SENTIMENTAL  STUDIES 


AND 


A  SET  OF  VILLAGE  TALES 


BY 

HUBERT   CRACKANTHORPE 

AUTHOR   OF   "  WRECKAGE  " 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S    SONS 

NKW    YORK  LONDON 

27  WKST  TWKNTV-THIRD  STREET  24  BEPFOKU  STREET,  STRAND 

$,\jt  Jimthrrbochcr  '[\rtss 
1895 


C.VS 


COPYRIGHT,    1895 


Ubc  *nicl5erbocl!cc  press,  mew  IRocbelle 


TO 

HARRY 

IN  REMEMBRANCE  OF  MUCH 
ENCOURAGEMENT 


CONTENTS. 


SENTIMENTAL    STUDIES. 

FACE 

A  COMMONPLACE   CHAPTER 1              ....  3 

A  COMMONPLACE  CHAPTER II.           ....  67 

BATTLEDORE  AND  SHUTTLECOCK       .  112 

IN  CUMBERLAND         ., 179 

MODERN  MELODRAMA          .             .             .             .             .             .  225 

YEW-TREES  AND  PEACOCKS         .....  237 

A  SET  OF  VILLAGE  TALES. 

LISA-LA-FOLLE 249 

THE  WHITE  MAIZE 254 

SAINT-P6               .             .             .    ' 257 

ETIENNE  MATTOU 262 

THE  LITTLE  PRIEST 274 

(IASTON  LALANNE'S  CHILD  280 


SENTIMENTAL  STUDIES 


A  COMMONPLACE  CHAPTER.— I. 


I. 


THE  two  women  stood  by  the  door,  face  to  face. 
Impulsively  the  elder  one  lifted  her  arms, 
caught  the  younger  one  to  her,  and  kissed  her. 

"God  bless  you,  my  darling!  .  .  .  God  bless 
you  ! ' ' 

The  struggle  to  stifle  the  rising  sobs  made  the  words 
come  irregularly,  in  gasps. 

"There,  there,  mother  dear,"  murmured  the  girl, 
soothingly,  while  she  smoothed  the  elder  woman's 
hair.  "  There,  there.  You  must  n't  cry." 

"  No,  no  ;  it  's  over  now,"  the  other  answered  hast- 
ily, lifting  her  face. 

The  girl  brushed  the  tears  from  the  wrinkled 
cheeks,  and  held  them  an  instant  between  her  hands, 
smiling  encouragingly. 

And  the  mother  smiled  back  bravely.  Once  more 
she  drew  the  girl  to  her  and  kissed  her  greedily. 


Sentimental  Studies 


"Good-night,  Nell  darling." 

"Good-night,  mother." 

They  looked  into  each  other's  eyes :  the  girl  still 
smiling  encouragingly  ;  the  mother  still  gulping  with 
her  grief. 

Then  the  door  shut  gently. 

Mechanically  Ella  knelt  down  by  the  bedside.  The 
words  of  her  habitual  evening  prayer  rose  to  her  lips  : 

' '  Commit  thy  way  unto  the  L,ord  ;  trust  also  in 
Him,  and  He  shall  bring  it  to  pass." 

When  she  had  ceased  she  became  aware  that  to-night 
she  could  not  pray.  She  was  alone.  And  she  won- 
dered not  a  little  at  this  novel  consciousness  of  solitude. 
For  she  remembered  that  it  was  for  the  last  time. 

All  at  once  came  a  spasm  of  keen  pain — to-morrow 
it  would  be  all  gone  .  .  .  mother  .  .  .  father 
.  .  .  the  gables  .  .  .  the  chestnuts  . 
the  clematis  climbing  the  porch  .  .  .  the  yellow- 
legged  writing-table  in  the  study,  and  its  litter  of  old 
circulars,  ends  of  string,  sealing-wax,  and  disused  pens 
...  all  would  be  gone.  She  would  be  in  a  strange 
room,  in  a  strange  house,  which  she  did  not  know. 

And  he  would  be  with  her. 

Often,  during  the  past  fortnight,  she  had  tried  to 
realise  that  the  end  of  the  old  life  was  coming  ;  but 
she  had  never  known,  as  she  knew  to-night,  that  it 
meant  separation  from  all  that  had  seemed  before  an 
inseparable  part  of  her  existence.  Every  day  they 


A  Commonplace. Chapter  5 

would  sit  down  to  breakfast,  to  luncheon,  to  dinner,  with- 
out her ;  they  would  live  on,  and  she  would  not  be  there. 

And,  as  she  knelt,  just  for  a  moment,  a  rebellious 
longing  rushed  through  her — a  passionate  yearning  to 
say  no — to  remain,  to  be  good  and  gentle  and  loving  to 
them  always,  always. 

"My  queen,  my  divinity,  there  will  be  nothing  in 
my  life  that  is  not  yours  ;  there  will  be  nothing  in  your 
life  that  is  not  mine.  Henceforth  we  shall  live,  each 
for  the  other,  till  death  do  us  part,  and  the  most  glori- 
ous happiness  that  God  has  given  will  be  ours." 

Those  were  his  words.  She  remembered  them,  every 
one.  Her  eyes  glistened  ;  for  the  words  sent  her  blood 
tingling. 

"  You  are  the  whole  world  to  me  ;  there  is  only  you, 
darling.  I  cannot  live  without  you.  I  love  you,  I 
love  you,  I  love  you  !  " 

.  .  .  It  was  where  the  path  in  the  wood  ends — 
leaves  above,  leaves  around,  nothing  but  leaves  ;  not 
green,  but  black  and  white.  Hillier's  face,  clear-cut 
in  the  white  moonlight,  his  hands  clasping  her  hands, 
his  cheek  pressing  her  cheek. 

And  it  all  seemed  to  her  very  wonderful  and  very 
grand. 

She  undressed  rapidly,  as  she  was  accustomed  to  do  ; 
blew  out  the  candle,  and  got  into  bed. 

The  window  was  wide  open,  and  the  muslin  curtains 
swaying  in  the  breeze  bulged  towards  her,  weirdly. 


Sentimental  Studies 


She  could  see  the  orchard  trees  bathed  in  blackness, 
and  above  a  square  of  sky,  blue-grey,  quivering  with 
stifled  light,  flecked  with  a  disorder  of  stars  that  seemed 
ready  to  rain  upon  the  earth.  After  a  while,  little  by 
little,  she  distinguished  the  forms  of  the  trees.  Slowly, 
monstrous,  and  sleek,  the  yellow  moon  was  rising. 

She  was  no  longer  thinking  of  herself :  she  had  for- 
gotten that  to-morrow  was  her  wedding  day  :  for  a 
moment,  quite  impersonally,  she  watched  the  moon- 
light stealing  through  the  trees. 

When  recollection  returned,  it  was  wrapped,  as  it 
were,  in  a  veil  of  unreality.  She  had  been  insisting  to 
herself  that  it  was  for  her  a  great  moment.  Yet  it  had 
seemed,  and  to-night  it  seemed  more  so  than  ever,  that, 
somehow,  she  was  powerless  to  be  present  at  this  turn- 
ing-point in  her  life  ;  that  as  a  spectator,  on  some  great 
height,  she  was  looking  down  on  all  that  was  happen- 
ing to  her.  And  the  distance  made  things  blurred.  .  .  . 

It  was  quite  dark  when  she  awoke.  She  supposed 
it  was  two  o'clock.  Over  there,  in  the  inn  opposite, 
Hillier — was  he  thinking  of  her,  or  was  he  asleep  ? 
No,  she  was  sure  that  he  was  awake  ;  eager,  excited, 
impatient,  as  she  was,  waiting  for  the  great,  unknown 
happiness.  The  unknown  happiness,  of  the  existence 
of  which,  during  the  past  few  days,  she  found  herself 
growing  conscious — the  unknown,  which  was  to  be  mys- 
terious and  wonderful.  Her  breath  came  quickly,  in 
the  stillness  of  the  dark  she  could  hear  it  distinctly  .... 


A  Commonplace  Chapter  7 

To-morrow  night  he  would  be  with  her  ;  she  would 
sink  to  sleep,  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  his  arm  pro- 
tecting her,  and,  when  morning  came,  he  would  cover 
her  face  with  kisses,  and  he  would  tell  her  how  he 
loved  her.  .  .  . 

She  imagined  the  first  breakfast  in  the  cottage  which 
Hillier's  uncle  had  lent  him  (away  in  Surrey  ;  it  was  a 
grey-coloured  county  in  the  school-room  map).  There 
was  a  bow  window,  and  the  sunshine  streamed  in,  on 
to  the  white  cloth.  She  sat  at  the  bottom  of  the  table  ; 
she  poured  out  his  coffee,  and  she  asked  him  how  he 
liked  it.  Then  they  went  out  together  through  the 
glass  doors — for  there  were  glass  doors  in  the  bow  win- 
dow,— and  they  walked  round  the  garden,  and  she 
picked  some  flowers — dog-roses  they  were— and  pinned 
them  in  his  button-hole,  and  by-and-bye  they  went  out 
into  the  pine-woods,  where  there  was  no  sound,  and 
where  they  were  alone,  quite  alone. 


He  would  be  very  good  to  her — she  knew  that — 
kind  and  unselfish,  and  loving.  And  she  would  be 
unselfish  too  ;  she  would  follow  him  in  everything  ; 
he  was  so  clever  ;  he  meant  some  day  to  become  a  great 
writer,  of  whose  name  all  the  world  knew. 

How  different  he  was  from  the  rest  of  men  !  She 
recalled  two  others  of  her  acquaintance,  and  the  con- 
sciousness of  her  pride  filled  her  with  joy. 


8  Sentimental  Studies 


Was  God  away  in  heaven,  looking  down  on  her,  she 
wondered  ?  And  she  fell  to  remembering  how,  as  a 
child,  she  used  to  lie  staring  straight  up  at  the  sky, 
trying  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  God  in  His  glory,  seated, 
surrounded  by  a  shining  multitude  of  angels,  some- 
where amid  the  huge  billows  of  white  clouds. 

Other  fragments  of  her  childhood  memories  came  to 
her  too,  and  some  of  them  she  turned  over  in  her  mind 
again  and  again,  beginning  each  time  at  the  same  point, 
and  ending  each  time  where  she  had  ended  before.  .  .  . 

The  sound  of  the  hall  clock  striking  in  the  hall  woke 
her.  How  loud  it  seemed  !  She  felt  wide-awake  and 
curiously  calm.  .  .  . 


II. 


HE  was,  he  told  himself,  supremely  happy.  Several 
times  before  he  had  set  up  a  woman's  figure  on 
a  pedestal,  and,  for  a  while,  had  deluded  himself  into 
worshipping  her.  And  when  it  had  passed,  he  had,  to 
his  own  satisfaction,  succeeded  in  bedecking  the  mem- 
ory of  each  incident  with  an  appropriate,  sentimental 
halo.  He  had  had  too,  of  course,  erotic  adventures, 
purely  physical  ;  for  he  had  lived,  during  his  early 
years,  in  the  unwholesome  atmosphere  of  an  expensive 
public  school,  and  a  precocious  familiarity  with  the 
obscene  had  left  upon  his  imagination  a  secret  taint, 
which  at  moments  had  asserted  itself  irresistibly. 
Growing  into  manhood  he  had  sinned  conventionally 
with  the  rest ;  but  for  such  conduct  he  frequently  pro- 
fessed a  sentimental  disgust,  which,  in  his  case,  was 
more  sincere  than  hypocritical.  Yet,  in  a  sense,  he  was 
proud  of  himself ;  of  his  ability  ;  of  his  personal  charm  ; 
of  his  physical  comeliness  ;  he  looked  back  with  pride 
on  many  events  of  his  life  ;  on  his  struggle  with  pov- 
erty ;  on  his  conquests  of  women.  The  waiting  for 
achievement  in  his  work  had  never  caused  him  to  ex- 
perience doubt  or  discouragement ;  and,  when  other 

9 


io  Sentimental  Studies 


men  paraded  these  before  him,  he  looked  down  on  them 
with  genuine  contempt.  His  conceit  had  been  suffi- 
ciently robust  to  carry  him  through  that  time  of  strug- 
gle ;  he  believed  that  he  had  always  known  that  he 
would  not  fail.  He  felt  that  he  was  self-satisfied,  by 
reason  of  a  definite  gauging  of  his  own  powers.  Indeed, 
there  was  but  little  perspective  in  his  view  of  his  life, 
so  much  of  the  foreground  did  his  own  figure  fill. 


During  the  past  two  years  an  unformulated  discon- 
tent had  been  growing  within  him.  More  and  more 
seldom  did  his  thoughts  revert  to  his  past  sentimental 
experiences.  Their  attractiveness  seemed  to  have 
faded,  like  the  colour  of  a  much-fingered  embroidery. 
He  found  that  he  no  longer  viewed  his  management 
of  his  own  life  with  the  same  satisfaction,  but  rather 
with  a  sort  of  smouldering  irritation.  Something  was 
wanting  ;  something  was  unachieved.  The  restlessness 
which  this  sense  of  void  produced,  resolved  itself,  last 
year,  into  a  concentrated  impatience  for  escape — im- 
mediate escape — from  the  groove  in  which  his  life  was 
running.  So  he  travelled  alone  to  Switzerland,  and 
there,  during  long  evenings  in  drowsy  Alpine  villages, 
he  started  to  dream  of  marriage — an  ideal  marriage — 
a  simultaneous  satisfaction  of  intellectual,  emotional, 
and  physical  desires. 

And,   six  months  later,  in  that  picturesque  Sussex 


A  Commonplace  Chapter  1 1 

village,  he  had  stumbled  across  the  realisation  of  his 
dreams. 

The  whole  business  was  of  a  piece,  he  thought ; 
picturesque,  yet  in  no  way  cheap. 

And  yet  this  moment  of  his  marriage  had  stirred  his 
inmost  fibres  with  an  impetuous  yearning  for  regenera- 
tion. The  manifestation  of  his  love  for  her  had  been 
full  of  a  refinement  of  fine  impulse,  of  a  tense  and  cul- 
tured aspiration.  She,  Ella,  warm  and  simple-hearted, 
sweet,  and  gentle-minded,  during  the  fervour  of  their 
engagement  trusted  in  him  as  a  man  above  all  other 
men  ;  and  his  very  self-absorption  made  each  fresh  sign 
of  this  trust  of  hers  an  acute  suffering  to  him,  till, 
racked  by  remorse,  he  longed  weakly  to  besmirch  him- 
self altogether  in  her  eyes. 

And  this  same  morbid  consciousness  of  the  ignoble 
within  him,  the  cultivation  of  which  brought  him  a 
certain  relief,  since  it  seemed  a  final  remnant  of  distinc- 
tion with  which  he  could  bedeck  the  cloddish  brutality 
of  his- past  conduct,  had  spurred  him  to  a  strenuous 
devotion  to  her.  He  had  effaced  himself  utterly  : 
absorbed  himself  in  her  ;  grown  aglow  with  an  ecstasy 
of  passionate,  reverential  fervour. 

For  her  personality  appeared  to  him  abundant  in 
possibilities  ;  and  it  was — though  he  never  acknowl- 
edged it  to  himself — on  these  possibilities,  rather  than 
on  the  obvious  facts  of  her  nature,  that  his  imagination 
dwelt.  That  she  might  represent  to  him  something 


1 2  Sentimental  Studies 


entirely  different  from  what  he  imagined  her  to  repre- 
sent, now,  in  this  moment  of  extreme  emotional  exalta- 
tion, would  have  appeared  to  him  quite  preposterous. 

Thus  he  adored  her  extravagantly,  in  unconscious 
insincerity  ;  caressing  admiringly  the  extravagance  of 
his  adoration  ;  or  telling  himself  that  he  loved  her  with 
all  the  forces  of  his  manhood  ;  because  she  was  his, 
because  he  had  found  her,  because  he  knew  the  great 
love  she  was  giving  him  in  return. 

And  he  took  to  describing  the  relations  of  sex  as  a 
great  sacrament. 

Physically,  at  the  first  glance,  he  was  unlike  other 
men,  though  it  was  his  habit  sedulously  to  avoid  obvious 
eccentricity  of  appearance.  He  was  clean-shaven  ;  dark, 
silky  hair  ;  clever,  close-set  eyes  ;  a  thin  mouth,  drawn 
a  trifle  as  if  by  thought  at  the  corners ;  a  clean-cut, 
intellectual,  slightly  hatchet-shaped  profile  ;  and  in  his 
bearing,  the  unconscious,  distinguished  ease  of  fine- 
breeding.  The  average  man  of  his  age  disliked  him, 
generally  with  impatience  ;  women,  on  the  other -hand, 
were  interested  in  his  air  of  modern  picturesqueness. 
And  some,  divining  beneath  his  boyish  manner  a  dis- 
creet, an  intuitive  experience  of  women,  and  relying 
on  his  mobile,  emotional  nature — that  had  been  said  of 
him,  and  he  knew  it, — were  led  to  treat  him  almost  as 
if  he  were  of  their  own  sex. 


III. 


GOD  is  good,  Nellie  !  What  a  brick  He  's 
been  !" 

"  Hush  !  you  must  n't  talk  like  that." 

She  smiled  in  quick  response  to  the  sudden  sound  of 
his  voice,  and  her  face  flushed  a  little  eagerly.  It  was 
a  face  unattractive  according  to  cheap,  conventional 
standards  of  prettiness,  an  unobtrusive  face — simple, 
brown  hair,  insignificant  eyes,  and  pale  lips — a  face 
wearing  an  unconscious  girlishness,  and  -yet  a  delicate 
suggestion  of  maturity.  "  My  wife  is  so  deliciously 
English,"  Hillier  often  said  of  her  afterwards. 

"Why  not?  Before  I  never  thought  much  about 
Him.  He  was  like  the  king  of  some  far-off  country, 
about  whom,  now  and  then,  one  mechanically  reads 
paragraphs  in  the  papers.  But  now  He  seems  quite 
near,  quite  familiar — just  like  an  old  pal." 

"Hillier,  don't  !     It  's  blasphemy." 

"  But  it's  true.  I  understand  Him  quite  well  now. 
I  suppose  it 's  because  I  'm  happy — so  infinitely,  splen- 
didly, gloriously  happy." 

' '  Are  you  ?  ' ' 

"  Yes  ;  and  it  's  you — all  you.  You  in  that  adorable 
13 


14  Sentimental  Studies 

blue  dress,  with  that  ivory  skin,  that  warm,  sparkling 
hair." 

' '  Stop  !  you  dear ' ' 

"And  it  's  everything  else  as  well.  The  whole 
world  is  changed.  The  sun  is  stretching  out  his  big, 
warm  hand  to  me.  Look  !  the  trees  are  like  demure 
school-girls  in  new,  green  frocks,  and  the  cool  immen- 
sity of  that  sky.  .Nell,  I  understand  what  it  all  means. ' ' 

"Tell  me." 

' '  It  means  that  you  are  adorable — more  adorable 
than  any  woman  who  has  been,  or  is,  or  will  be ;  that 
I  am  happier  than  any  man  has  ever  been  before  on 
this  earth  ;  that  the  sun  knows  it,  the  little  green  trees 
know  it. ' ' 

"  How  wonderfully  you  talk,  Hillier  !  " 

"  Darling,  come  near  to  me.  Give  me  your  hand — 
a  warm,  pulsing  morsel  of  your  dear  self." 

"Some  one  might  see.  L,ook  !  there  are  people  in 
the  road." 

"  Ha  !     Dolts,  in  black  coats  and  ugly,  stiff  hats." 

"  They  're  going  to  church." 

He  snorted  contempt.     Then,  presently  : 

"  How  everything  in  the  air  says  that  it 's  Sunday — 
that  all  the  world  is  at  rest.  It 's  sacrilege  to  work  on 
such  a  gorgeous  day. ' ' 

' '  But  lots  of  people  have  to. ' ' 

"Yes,  I  suppose  they  do,"  he  answered  carelessly. 


A  Commonplace  Chapter  15 

"Some  day  when  I  've  become  a  great  writer,"  and 
he  smiled  at  his  own  affectation  of  conceit,  "I  '11  write 
a  book  on  the  mystery  of  happiness  ;  where  all  shall  be 
happiness,  profound  happiness,  like  mine,  from  the 
first  page  to  the  last.  There  is  a  man  who  says  that 
any  one  can  be  happy,  if  he  only  will  take  enough 
trouble  about  it. ' ' 

"Well?" 

"That  'srot!" 


' '  There  are  only  five  days  more,  and  then  you  will 
have  to  go  back  to  work.  You  will  be  away  all  day, 
and  I  shall  only  have  you  in  the  evenings,  when 
you  're  tired  out." 

"  Work  !  Turn  myself  once  more  into  a  publisher's 
drudge  !  I  want  to  live.  How  can  a  man  work  when 
he  's  living,  when  he  's  feeling  things,  as  I  am  now  ? 
What  do  they  all  come  to — success,  and  the  petty  am- 
bitions to  which  one  sacrifices  one's  life  ?  Bah  !  it  's 
a  wretched,  treadmill  sort  of  existence." 

"  But  you  were  quite  content  doing  it  once?  " 

"  Only  a  sort  of  thin,  relative  contentedness.  Be- 
cause one  did  n't  know  any  better.  Not  this  sort  of 
ultimate  happiness."  And  he  reflected  on  the  felicity 
of  the  new-found  expression. 

A  little  later  she  began  : 

"  Hillier,  go  on  telling  me  what  you  think  about  the 


1 6  Sentimental  Studies 


world  and  things.  It 's  all  so  strange — the  way  you 
talk  of  it  all,  I  mean — and  I  want  to  understand  what 
it  is  in  me  that  makes  you  so  happy  ?  Tell  me,  that 's 
what  I  want  to  understand." 

"It  's  just  yourself — your  hair,  your  eyes,  your 
mouth,  your  arms,  your  hands,  your  feet.  It  's  your 
sweetness,  your  gentleness,  your  ignorance,  your 
purity." 


"Tell  me,"  he  said  suddenly,  "who  made  love  to 
you  before  I  did  ?  ' ' 

"  No  one — except  the  little  doctor,  and  he  did  n't 
really." 

' '  What  !  that  freckled  little  chap  I  .saw  at  the  school- 
treat  ?  I  should  think  not. ' ' 

"  But  he  was  very  nice  and  kind.  He  used  to  walk 
miles  and  miles  to  get  me  flowers.  And,  Hillier,  I 
sometimes  used  to  like  him  a  great  deal." 

"Shut  up.  It's  too  monstrous.  But  you  don't 
mean  it.  Why,  you  and  I  were  made  for  each  other  ; 
as  you  said  the  other  day,  you  were  just  waiting  for 
me  all  those  years  down  in  that  quiet,  old-fashioned 
vicarage. ' ' 

"  But,  Hillier,  why  should  you  mind  about  the  doc- 
tor? You  've  had  flirtations  too." 

' '  How  do  you  know  ?  ' ' 

"  I  guessed  it. 


A  Commonplace  Chapter  17 

"  I  don't  know.     I  've  never  counted." 

"  But  how  man}'  ?     Three  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  yes  ;  more  than  that." 

"Six?" 

"Yes." 

"More  than  six?  " 

"  Perhaps." 

"Twelve?" 

"  Yes  ;  about  a  dozen,  I  suppose." 

"Hillier,  is  that  true?" 

He  nodded. 

"  And  did  n't  you  care  for  any  of  them  ?  " 

"  No,  not  really." 

"And  they— 

"Well?" 

"Didn't  they  care?" 

"Yes;  I  suppose  some  did.  At  least  they  pre- 
tended to." 

"Oh!  Hillier,  don't  talk  like  that.  It's  not  you ; 
it's  like  some  one  else.  It's  horrible.  And  did  you 
tell  them  that  you  loved  them  ?  " 

' '  Yes,  sometimes. ' ' 

A  pause.  There  was  trouble  on  her  face  ;  on  his, 
nettled  impatience. 

"  Hillier,  did  you  only  flirt  with  them  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

' '  Was     there     nothing  —  nothing     more     between 

you?" 
a 


1 8  Sentimental   Studies 


"Come,   Ella,"   he  answered  with  a  forced  laugh, 
"  you  're  cross-examining  me  like  a  regular  lawyer." 
1 '  No,  I  must  know — I  ought  to  know  ! ' ' 
"  We  '11  talk  about  it  some  other  time — not  now." 
"No— now!" 

"  Well,  if  you  must  know,  there  was." 
"  With  all  of  them  ?" 
' '  With  most  of  them. ' ' 


"Well,  what  are  you  thinking  about?"  he  began 
again,  with  obvious  uneasiness. 

"Why  did  n't  you  tell  me  before  ?  " 

"How  could  I?  Besides,  what  does  it  matter 
now  ?  ' ' 

"  If  I  had  been  like  that,  what  would  you  have  said 
when  I  told  you  ? ' ' 

"  I  should  n't  have  cared  a  jot.  Do  you  suppose  I 
only  love  you  for  your  virtues.  I  love  you  for  your- 
self. I  want  you  just  as  you  are." 

"  But  if  I  'd  been  different?  " 

"  But  you  aren't.     So  there's  an  end  of  it." 

"  But,  Hillier,  just  now  you  were  angry  when  I  told 
you  of  the  doctor." 

"  No,  I  was  n't.     Only  he  's  such  a  puny  creature." 

"  And  they — were  they  all  so  beautiful  ?  " 

"  Yes,  every  one,"  he  replied,  with  brutal  pride. 

' '  Much  more  than  me  ?     .     .     .     I  suppose  you  said 


A  Commonplace  Chapter  19 

to  them  all  the  fine  phrases  you  have  been  saying  to 
me.  .  .  .  No  wonder  they  come  so  easily."  But 
she  had  not  the  strength  to  sustain  the  hard  note  of 
sarcasm.  She  turned  her  back  on  him  quickly  and 
stared  across  the  lawn.  And  he,  impulsively  remind- 
ing himself  of  her  purity,  of  the  fineness  of  his  former 
attitude  towards  her,  upbraided  himself  helplessly,  and, 
putting  his  arm  round  her,  soothed  her  with  an  out- 
pouring of  intense  tenderness. 


IV. 


SHE  was   awake.     The  fresh   sunshine  filled   the 
room.      Some    birds    were    twittering    as    they 
sported  in  the  creeper  outside  ;   inside,  the  sound  of 
his  breathing  rose  and  fell  in  heavy  regularity. 

.  Six  weeks  this  morning  !  But  it  was  like 
years  and  years  :  at  least  the  memories  of  the  old  life 
were  faint  and  blurred ;  far,  far,  back  in  the  past ;  to 
recall  them  was  almost  an  effort. 

She  shifted  her  position  in  the  bed.  The  hair  was 
dishevelled  ;  the  long,  colourless  cheeks  lay  inert ;  the 
mouth  was  half  open.  His  handsomeness  was  gone  ; 
at  least  so  she  fancied  ;  and  the  empty  expression  on 
his  face  coarsened  it,  brutalised  it.  He  looked  as  she 
had  never  seen  him  look  before.  She  shrank  from 
him,  she  knew  not  why.  She  was  his  now  !  How 
strange  that  was  !  for  all  at  once  it  seemed  to  her  that 
she  knew  nothing  of  him,  and  the  revelation  of  this 
ignorance  scared  her.  He  was  twenty-eight  years  old. 
He  had  been  a  man  for  eight  years.  Eight  years  ! 
Twice  four  5^ears  !  She  tried  to  realise  the  stretch  of 
time  that  four  years  meant.  And  she  knew  nothing — 
nothing,  but  what  he  had  told  her  yesterday.  She 

20 


A  Commonplace  Chapter  21 

tried  to  think — what  did  she  know  ?  He  had  lived  in 
London  many  years  ...  he  had  been  very  poor 
once  .  .  .  then  things  had  changed  and  now  he 
worked  for  a  great  publishing  firm  .  .  .  his  name 
appeared  sometimes  in  the  London  papers  .  .  . 
and  he  had  numbers  of  friends,  celebrated  people. 

She  found  herself  resenting  her  ignorance  of  these 
eight  years.  Why  had  he  married  her  ?  How  came 
it  that  she,  a  simple  clergyman's  daughter,  should 
mean  to  him  all  those  wonderful  things  ? 

At  the  corner  of  High  Field  Lane  she  had  seen  him 
for  the  first  time.  He  was  sketching,  with  his  back 
turned  towards  her.  She  stopped  to  look  at  his  pic- 
ture, and  he  turned  round  with  a  stare  so  rude,  it  had 
seemed,  that  she  hurried  away.  How  odd  those 
beginnings  appeared  now  ! 

In  those  days,  his  tall,  thin  figure,  his  clear-sound- 
ing voice,  each  detail  of  hi3  person,  dominated  the 
rest  of  the  world,  and  his  words  fascinated  her. 

Was  it  changed  now  ?  No,  it  was  the  same — only, 
there  was  yesterday  afternoon.  But  she  did  not  think 
of  that  now :  she  was  just  yearning  for  home.  The 
oppressiveness  of  her  sense  of  isolation  increased. 
Even  he  was  asleep,  dreaming,  perhaps,  his  thoughts 
away  from  her,  in  places,  with  people,  that  she  did  not 
know.  For  the  second  time  since  the  marriage  the 
tears  welled  up.  She  strove  to  convince  herself  that 
it  was  but  childish  folly,  but  she  could  not  keep  them 


22  Sentimental  Studies 


back.  Then  she  let  them  come.  To  cry  was  a  .sweet 
relief. 

A  little  while  had  passed,  leaving  her  numb.  And 
she  fell  to  considering  drowsily  the  long  years  ahead 
— twenty,  thirty — which  must  be  passed  by  his  side. 
She  wondered  how  it  would  be  when  he  was  an  old 
man  and  she  an  old  woman.  At  least  she  would 
know  him  better  then.  Perhaps  he  would  love  her  as 
he  did  now  ;  perhaps  they  would  be  like  old  Doctor 
Manners  and  his  wife,  white-haired,  wrinkled,  yet 
caressing  as  young  lovers.  But  she  did  not  think  it 
would  be  so — something  indefinable,  instinctive,  told 
her  that  it  would  not  be. 

And  then  her  thoughts  went  back  to  home.  They 
would  be  less  poor  now,  and  that  cheered  her.  Times 
had  grown  bad  of  late.  The  tenant  had  left  the 
glebe  farm,  and  no  other  could  be  found.  She  knew 
well  to  what  straits  the  slender  income  had  been  put. 

Often  she  had  longed  to  go  out  as  a  governess,  and 
in  all  probability  she  would  have  gone  had  she  but 
known  how  to  set  about  it.  But  she  had  no  qualifica- 
tions :  she  could  not  paint,  or  play  the  piano,  and  she 
knew  no  French.  This  helplessness  of  hers  galled 
her  ;  there  were  times  when  she  had  grudged  the 
very  food  she  ate.  So,  when  he  had  appeared,  to 
single  her  out,  to  tell  her  that  he  loved  her,  to  ask  her 
to  be  his  wife,  she  had  not  hesitated.  To  consult  her 
own  feelings,  searching! y,  never  occurred  to  her. 


A  Commonplace  Chapter  23 

Afterwards  she  had  given  herself  no  sort  of  merit  for 
this  :  for  when  he  was  with  her  she  was  quite  happy  ; 
and  when  he  was  not  there  too.  Only  there  had  been 
moments  when  she  dreaded  the  step — when  she  shrank 
from  the  irrevocable,  the  unknown. 

One  day  he  went  to  London  and  brought  back  with 
him  three  black  leather  cases  full  of  jewels.  A  ring,  a 
brooch,  and  a  bracelet.  And,  somehow,  these  jewels 
made  her  even  less  at  her  ease  with  him  than  ever. 
She  could  n't  help  wondering  what  they  must  have 
cost,  and  it  seemed  to  her  wrong  to  spend  so  much  on 
things  about  which  she  did  not  care.  She  felt,  too, 
with  a  sort  of  shame,  that  she  could  not  help  showing 
him  that  she  did  not  thank  him  for  them  genuinely. 
But,  she  noticed,  he  did  not  care  ;  he  was  so  pleased 
with  them  himself. 

When  the  wedding  day  had  come,  she  had  not 
realised  it  at  all ;  it  had  all  been  queer  and  unreal, 
like  a  dream.  The  service  so  solemn  and  beautiful  she 
had  thought  it,  when  she  had  read  it  over  to  herself ; 
but,  in  the  church,  she  never  listened.  Her  eyes  were 
fixed  on  the  sapphires  in  the  bracelet  he  had  given 
her  ;  she  was  wondering  how  much  they  had  cost. 

This  house,  too,  to  which  he  had  brought  her,  the 
unfamiliar  furniture,  and  the  strange  faces  of  the  ser- 
vants, had  only  added  to  her  sense  of  isolation.  Yet, 
after  all,  it  was  better  now. 


24  Sentimental  Studies 


He  had  slipped  his  arms  round  her.  He  had  seen 
that  her  cheeks  were  wet  with  tears. 

"Nell!" 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice,  clear  and  strong,  she  im- 
pulsively nestled  her  head  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Come,  little  one,  what  is  it?  Out  with  the  secret 
grief." 

' '  I  was  thinking  of  home.  You  are  so  good  to  me, 
Hillier.  .  You  won't  mind,  will  you?"  And  the 
yearning  to  pour  out  what  was  in  her  heart  gave  her 
courage.  "  I  've  never  been  away  from  them  before — 
and — it  seems  so  strange. ' ' 

She  paused  ;  he  was  stroking  her  wrist  ;  the  sooth- 
ing was  delicious. 

<(The}r  are  so  poor.  Father  hasn't  had  any  rent 
from  the  glebe  farm  for  two  years.  ...  And  you  've 
made  me  so  rich.  .  .  .  It  doesn't  seem  fair." 

"  Darling  one,  what  isn't  fair  is  that  I  haven't  a 
thousand  times  more  to  give  you." 

' '  But  what  have  I  done  that  I  should  have  so 
much  ? ' ' 

"  Nothing,  of  course,  except  existed." 

She  smiled  absently. 

"  Hillier,  I  do  wish  I  could  do  something  to  help 
them." 

"  Send  them  a  hundred  pounds,"  he  answered. 

"  A  hundred  pounds  !  You  will  give  me  a  hundred 
pounds  to  send  to  them  ?  " 


A  Commonplace  Chapter  25 

She  covered  his  face  with  kisses  ;  his  eyes,  his  cheeks, 
his  mouth. 

He  submitted  with  an  affectation  of  resistance. 

"  I  wonder  if  there  is'another  man  on  earth  like  you, 
Hillier, ' '  she  murmured. 


V. 

THE  hundred  pounds  were  duly  despatched — ten 
clean,  crackling  bank-notes  in  a  registered  en- 
velope. And,  when  it  was  all  finished,  they  went  out 
into  the  garden,  hand  in  hand. 

He  could  ill  afford  the  money  ;  but  that  fact  spurred 
him  the  more  to  send  it ;  and  in  an  hour  or  two  his 
interest  in  the  matter  had  faded  ;  he  referred  to  it  but 
once  with  a  carelessness  that  was  not  assumed.  But 
on  her,  the  incident  made  an  impression  of  no  slight 
depth  ;  late  at  night,  and  early  in  the  morning,  the 
remembrance  of  it  was  with  her  ;  such  generosity 
seemed  wonderful.  Traces  of  its  influence  were  dis- 
cernible in  each  small  phase  of  her  attitude  towards 
him  :  she  reproached  herself  for  not  having  done  justice 
in  her  own  mind  to  his  generosity  before  ;  yet  she  set 
to  work  eagerly  to  discover  ways  of  pleasing  him  :  she 
reproduced  a  little  of  his  extravagance  of  language, 
and  stimulated  with  rare  tact  his  exuberant  expression 
of  opinion,  even  when  the  topic  was  unfamiliar  and 
uncongenial  to  her. 

From  her  up-bringing — from  the  methodical  mo- 
notony of  her  home  life — she  had  learned  the  habit  of 

26 


A  Commonplace  Chapter  27 

mental  precision.  She  had  begun,  by  a  sort  of  classifi- 
cation of  his  sayings,  to  endeavour  to  arrive  at  the 
nature  of  his  thoughts,  to  discover  what  was  his  faith 
in  religion,  in  Christ,  and  she  waited  always  for  the 
day  when  he  should  talk  to  her  on  these  matters. 

The  passionateness  of  his  love  communicated  itself 
irresistibly  to  her.  This  had  troubled  her,  she  did  not 
know  whether  it  was  right  or  wrong.  She  had  sought 
vainly,  in  the  teaching  of  her  life,  for  guidance.  But 
such  was  the  ignorance  in  which  her  girlhood  had  been 
spent  that  she  found  nothing. 

Now,  however,  all  these  misgivings  were  merged  in 
her  aspiration  to  be  worthy  of  him,  to  please  him 
absolutely. 

And  thus  his  satisfaction  in  her,  and  in  himself  for 
having  found  her,  grew  in  completeness,  as  the  days  of 
the  honeymoon  drew  to  their  close. 


VI. 


SHE  sat  in  the  garden  alone.  The  hum  of  insects 
and  a  faint  scent  of  sweet  hay  were  in  the  air  ; 
the  trees,  robed  in  the  sombre  green  of  midsummer, 
stood  solid  and  still ;  masses  of  cloud,  ponderous  and 
white,  crowded  the  sky. 

She  saw  all  these  things,  and  yet  she  was  unconscious 
of  them.  Her  eyes  were  restless  with  excitement. 

Yes,  she  was  beginning  to  see  clearer  now,  or  rather 
to  realise  her  immediate  surroundings. 

London  ! — the  broad,  white  streets,  the  never-ceasing 
flow  of  cabs  and  carriages,  the  shining  shop-windows, 
and  the  black  crowd  on  the  pavement — to-morrow  she 
would  be  there  ;  she  was  impatient  for  it  to  come. 

She  would  become  a  Londoner  ;  soon  she  would  be 
quite  at  home  in  the  great  city.  Hillier  would  take 
her  to  the  theatre  ;  to  the  opera  ;  she  would  be  mistress 
of  his  house,  and  sit  at  the  bottom  of  the  table  when 
they  had  dinner-parties :  and  when  she  had  grown 
quite  familiar  with  it  all,  father  and  mother  should 
come  ;  she  saw  herself  walking  through  the  streets 
with  them,  naming  to  them  all  the  famous  people  as 
they  rolled  by  in  their  carriages.  And  she  felt  very, 

very  happy. 

28 


VII. 

THEY  were  quite  strange,  these  first  impressions 
of  London — at  least,  so  they  seemed,  when  she 
recalled  them  afterwards  ;  as  if,  in  those  days,  the 
forms  of  the  buildings  had  been  altogether  altered. 

Disappointment — disappointment  which,  for  a  while, 
she  had  refused  to  recognise — disappointment  which, 
later,  she  had  struggled  to  suppress — that  was  what 
she  had  first  felt. 

The  hansom,  which  brought  them  from  the  station, 
rattled  past  the  long  line  of  porticoes,  stretching  away 
and  away,  in  spacious  monotony,  down  the  Cromwell 
Road, — then  halted.  And  the  house — which  was  to 
be  theirs — looked  lonely,  cheerless,  dreary,  with  its 
expanse  of  grey-black  wall.  The  sense  of  separation 
from  every  surrounding  of  her  country  home,  each 
hallowed  by  its  particular  associations — the  green  gar- 
den-seats under  the  trees,  the  shrubbery-walks,  the 
flowers,  the  bright  colours — came  back  to  her. 

Radiant  and  eager,  he  led  her  through  all  the  house, 
from  the  basement  to  the  servants'  bedrooms  under  the 
roof.  At  the  beginning  she  made  some  effort  to  echo 

his  laughter,  to  emulate  his  buoyancy  ;  but  before  they 

29 


30  Sentimental  Studies 


had  come  to  the  end,  she  was  following  him  wearily, 
sick  at  heart,  longing  for  it  to  be  over,  that  she  might 
be  alone  with  her  own  thoughts. 

It  was  only  when  they  were  haying  tea,  by  them- 
selves in  the  drawing-room,  that  he  perceived  her  dejec- 
tion. And  he  questioned  her  so  gently,  that,  in  one 
generous  impulse  she  gave  him  all  that  was  in  her 
heart,  pouring  out  her  disappointment  and  her  distress, 
reproaching  herself  the  while  for  her  weakness  and  for 
her  ingratitude.  He  seated  himself  by  her  side  on  the 
sofa,  and  soothed  her,  till  he  had  changed  her  sad- 
ness to  hesitating  happiness,  and  from  hesitating  hap- 
piness to  the  rest  of  pure  delight. 

In  a  corner  of  the  bare,  half- furnished  drawing-room, 
while,  outside,  the  rattle  of  wheels  rose,  shook  the 
windows,  and  died  away  in  the  distance,  he  talked, 
narrating  his  love  for  her,  till  all  the  vista  of  the  future 
became  tinged  with  gold. 

After  dinner,  while  he  smoked,  she  sat  on  a  cushion 
at  his  feet,  resting  her  head  between  his  knees. 

And  when  at  last  they  went  up-stairs,  she  remem- 
bered nothing  but  his  goodness,  and  the  abandonment 
to  the  intoxication  of  his  love. 


VIII. 

THERE  were  three  days  before  he  must  go  back  to 
his   work — three   days   more   to   be   passed   to- 
gether ;  and  then,   morning  after  morning,  he  would 
have  to  set  off  to  his  work  ;  and  all  day,  till  the  late 
afternoon,  she  would  be  alone. 

They  had  talked  together  of  this  daily  separation, 
many  times — he  resenting  it  unreasonably,  she  bravely 
concealing  her  dread — a  double  dread  of  solitude,  and 
of  those  friends  of  his  with  whom  she  must  become 
acquainted.  For  she  divined  that  there  would  be  no 
affinity  between  them  and  her. 

But  they  were  busy  days  ;  for  the  furniture  that  the 
house  possessed  was  quite  scanty,  and  they  had  but  a 
single,  temporary  servant. 

So  full  of  their  joy  as  to  be  oblivious  of  all  that  was 
not  directly  concerned  in  it,  they  wandered  through 
many  spacious  shops,  hesitating  at  the  entrance  to  con- 
sult a  voluminous  list  which  she  had  conscientiously 
compiled  ;  then,  after  starting  in  the  wake  of  some 
stately  shopman,  halting  continually,  calling  the  one 
to  the  other,  purchasing  capriciously.  Just  at  first  his 
joyous  recklessness  roused  her  scruples ;  soon,  she 
became  entirely  infected  with  his  exuberance. 

31 


32  Sentimental  Studies 

In  the  evenings,  they  were  eager  to  have  done  with 
their  dinner,  that  they  might  the  sooner  attack  the  pile 
of  packages  encumbering  the  hall,  and  spread  their 
contents  on  the  dining-room  table,  critically,  as  if  for 
exhibition. 

And,  besides,  there  were  servants  to  be  engaged. 
Hillier  was  charmed  by  her  timid  avowal  of  inexperi- 
ence, and  good-humouredly  took  the  matter  into  his 
own  hands,  inserting  advertisements  in  the  newspapers. 
So  on  the  morning  of  their  last  day  they  breakfasted 
earlier  than  usual  ;  then,  as  soon  as  the  cloth  was 
cleared,  seated  themselves,  in  judgment  as  it  were,  at 
one  end  of  the  long  table. 

And  the  invasion  began.  In  rapid  succession  they 
appeared  :  portly  women  in  smart  bonnets  ;  chubby 
country-girls ;  maids  with  prim,  genteel  voices  ; 
bouncing,  garrulous  creatures  of  all  shapes  and  sizes. 

Hillier  attacked  each  one  with  the  same  determina- 
tion, questioning  and  cross-questioning  with  a  confi- 
dent fluency  that  filled  her  with  amazement  and 
admiration.  So,  by  luncheon-time,  their  household 
was  completed. 

And  all  the  while,  to  know  that  the  separation  was 
at  hand,  lent  to  the  close  companionship  of  these  first 
days  in  London — the  last  of  the  honeymoon,  she  named 
them  to  herself — a  subtle  excitement  and  a  precious 
charm. 


IX. 

HOW  far  is  it?" 
"About  three  miles.     You  'd  only  better 
come  as  far  as  the  Circus." 

"  Oh  !  let  me  come  all  the  way,  please." 
"  There,  poor  little  girl,  of  course  you  shall,  if  you 
want  to." 

The  morning  sunlight  was  gladdening  the  city,  gild- 
ing the  roof-tops,  driving  the  dirt  from  the  houses, 
lending  to  the  pavement  a  dazzling  whiteness,  paving 
the  roadway  with  burnished  nuggets,  glinting  on  the 
panels  of  carriages  and  on  the  flanks  of  horses. 
"  L,ook,  Hillier  !  what  a  beautiful  morning  !  " 
Something  of  the  glad  spirit  entered  into  her,  as,  by 
his  side,  she  walked  past  the  great  yellow  museum, 
all  agleam  in  the  insolence  of  'its  ugliness.  To  glance 
down  at  her  bright-blue  dress,  which  she  was  wearing 
for  the  first  time,  gave  her  a  sense  of  elation^f  kin- 
ship with  the  day's  mood. 

Hillier  was  jubilant ;  talking,  jesting,  laughing 
loudly  ;  so  that,  as  they  passed,  people  turned  to  look 
at  them.  And  when  he  noticed  this,  he  jested  the 

louder. 

33 


34  Sentimental  Studies 

They  turned  into  the  Park,  and  away  across  the 
green  towards  Rotten  Row. 

In  the  distance  the  trees,  all  veiled  in  blue  haze,  were 
merging  themselves,  indistinct  and  indefinite  in  the 
glowing  sky.  Hillier  exclaimed  how  that  exquisite 
atmospheric  effect  was  to  be  seen  but  there,  and  in 
Corot's  best  work.  She  wondered  whoCorot  was  ;  she 
fancied  his  name  must  be  spelt  Coreau. 

There  they  sauntered  a  little,  watching  the  riders  as 
they  cantered  past.  Once  an  acquaintance  of  Hillier 's 
raised  his  hat.  She  divined,  quickly,  that  the  obvious 
curiosity  with  which  the  man  eyed  her  was  distasteful 
to  him  ;  for  he  started  to  narrate,  in  a  forced,  jocular 
manner,  his  peculiarities.  She  felt  that  the  edge  of  her 
happiness  was  dulling ;  as  if  something,  coming,  be- 
tween them,  had  alienated  his  sympathy  from  her. 

When  they  reached  Piccadilly,  she  was  thinking  of 
the  return  home  ;  the  way  seemed  long,  and  she  would 
be  alone  ;  she  was  recapitulating  all  the  occupations 
with  which  she  had  told  herself  last  night  she  would 
fill  the  day  till  his  return. 

Moreover,  she  was  acutely  conscious  that,  for  the 
moment,  she  had  no  place  in  his  thoughts.  She  heard 
him  explaining  a  quarrel  between  a  famous  author  and 
the  firm  of  publishers  who  employed  him  as  reader, 
and  she  knew  that  he  had  never  noticed  that  she  was 
not  listening.  Then  he  spoke  of  the  future,  of  the 
people  who  would  call  on  her,  who  would  ask  them  to 
dinner,  and  whom  the}'  would  have  to  entertain  in 


35 


return.  To  hear  all  these  names,  with  which  she  was 
quite  unfamiliar,  made  her  heart  sink  lower  and  lower. 

At  the  crossing  they  paused,  for  several  omnibuses 
blocked  the  road  ;  from  behind,  from  each  side,  the 
people  crowded  to  the  pavement-edge,  waiting  to  cross. 

And  still  he  went  on  talking. 

The  soreness  of  her  wounded  pride  grew  intolerable. 

"  I  shall  go  back  now,"  she  said  ;  but  she  was 
keenly  hoping  that  he  would  ask  her  to  come  on. 

"  Poor  little  Nell  !  you  're  tired.  I  '11  put  }rou  into 
a  hansom." 

"  I  'd  rather  walk,"  she  answered  curtly. 

He  looked  at  her  doubtfully,  then— 

"  No,  you  can't,"  he  remonstrated. 

"  I  'd  rather — at  least  the  bit  across  the  Park." 

"  Good-bye, "  he  said.  Next,  with  a  glimmer  of 
how  things  were,  he  added  :  "  The  little  wife  must  take 
great  care  of  herself.  I  shall  dash  home  in  the  swiftest 
hansom  in  the  Strand." 

The  omnibuses  had  moved  on  ;  the  roadway  was 
clear  ;  the  people,  pressing  forward,  swallowed  him  up. 

She  noticed  that  he  had  not  touched  her  hand,  or 
raised  his  hat  to  her.  Back,  against  the  tide  of  men 
and  women  flowing  towards  the  City,  she  turned  ; 
dreary-hearted,  isolated,  in  the  midst  of  this  crowd 
that  pushed  past  her,  in  whose  life  she  had  no  part. 
Every  one  seemed  to  be  watching  her,  staring  at  her, 
hardly,  hostilely.  She  felt  more  and  more  awkward, 
and  different  from  the  rest. 


X. 


DURING  the  late  afternoon  he  returned,  bringing 
her  some  bunches  of  violets.  She  found  her- 
self almost  shy  of  him  :  she  told  him  so,  and  they 
laughed  together. 

In  the  evening  a  band  struck  up  near  the  house,  so 
they  carried  their  chairs  and  rugs  on  to  the  balcony 
and  sat  there,  talking  a  little,  while  the  music  played. 
He  was  pleased  that  she  was  thus  tender,  subdued  in 
manner  towards  him.  Her  companionship  cost  him 
no  effort,  and  he  reminded  himself  how,  in  manying 
her,  he  had  done  well. 

L,ater,  in  the  silence  of  the  night,  she  listened  to  the 
passionate  expression  of  his  love,  and  the  memory  of 
the  walk,  of  the  parting,  of  the  dreary  loneliness  in 
which  the  day  had  been  spent,  faded  till  it  had  grown 
vague  and  insignificant.  Only  the  next  morning  she 
did  not  offer  to  accompany  him  ;  he  did  not  suggest  it ; 
he  just  kissed  her  in  the  hall,  his  hat  on  his  head,  his 
stick  in  his  hand,  and  went. 

She  was  not  sorry  that  it  was  thus. 


XI. 


SO  the  days  went  by. 
She  went  to  work  seriously,  methodically,  to 
accustom  herself  to  the  new  routine,  resolute  to  learn, 
to  make  herself  at  ease  in  her  new  life.  She  was  un- 
easy on  account  of  her  ignorance  of  the  ways  of  people 
in  London  ;  yet  she  shrank  from  communicating  her 
uneasiness  to  him — partly  from  a  desire  to  conceal  her 
shortcomings,  and  partly,  perhaps,  because  she  feared 
lest,  in  betraying  them,  she  would  be  risking  something 
— of  the  precise  nature  of  which  she  had  no  idea. 

And  she  was  busy  making  progress.  From  conver- 
sations listened  to  in  the  drawing-rooms  she  visited,  she 
acquired  a  glib  familiarity  with  the  jargon  of  her  new 
surroundings  ;  she  learnt  to  manipulate  easily,  without 
effort,  just  those  turns  of  phrase  calculated  to  sustain 
amiable  conversation. 

Besides,  from  books,  from  review  articles,  from  his 
talk,  she  was  getting  a  queer,  jumbled  knowledge  of 
modern  thought — of  Ibsen,  of  the  labour  question,  of 
impressionism,  of  the  works  of  George  Meredith,  of 
the  emancipation  of  women.  It  was  the  pressure  of  a 
constant  consciousness  of  her  husband's  superiority 

37 


38  Sentimental  Studies 


that  impelled  her  to  struggle  with  all  these  things. 
"  Hillier  wants  me  to  be  clever,"  she  had  said  to  herself. 
But,  as  yet,  her  labour  bore  no  fruit ;  only  the  sense  of 
her  own  ignorance  and  of  her  own  stupidity  came  of 
it.  Now  and  then,  with  a  glimmering  perception  of 
the  wickedness  of  the  world,  she  revolted  against  what 
she  read  ;  but  she  was  generally  too  preoccupied  with 
the  thoughts  that  were  at  work  in  the  background  of 
her  own  mind  to  grasp  intelligently  the  author's 
meaning. 


XII. 

THE  innumerable  small  signs  of  her  love  for  him, 
of  her  submission  to  him  in  all  things,  afforded 
his  vanity  a  continual  regalement  such  as  it  had  never 
known  before  ;  beside  no  other  woman  had  he  experi- 
enced that  sense  of  complete  mastery.  He  attributed 
his  contentment  to  the  depth  of  his  love.  At  the  same 
time,  the  period  of  dissatisfaction  with  the  various 
sentimental  experiences,  which  other  women  had  be- 
queathed to  him,  closed.  He  had  already  almost  per- 
suaded himself  that  they  were  a  not  inappropriate 
prelude  to  the  adoration  which  his  wife  laid  at  his  feet. 

Thus,  the  best  that  was  in  him  was  brought  to  the 
surface. 

He  had  visioned  himself  as  treating  her  with  for- 
bearance, indulgence,  sweetness,  after  having  displayed 
an  intelligent  unworldliness  in  marrying  her.  During 
the  honeymoon,  and  the  first  days  in  London,  he  had 
achieved  his  attitude  quite  satisfactorily,  and  since  he 
had  found  that  achievement  easy,  he  glided  into  a  com- 
placent security  with  regard  to  the  future. 

After  the  strangeness  of  the  first  days  had  worn  off, 
he  had  been  busy  with  dreams  of  his  own  possibilities 

39 


40  Sentimental  Studies 

as  her  husband.  Her  entire  lack  of  all  that  small 
knowledge,  of  which,  in  London,  she  would  stand  in 
such  need,  did  not  daunt  him  ;  it  excited  him,  while 
her  responsiveness,  her  eagerness  to  accept  him  as  a 
teacher,  swelled  his  self-confidence. 

And  her  continual  recognition  of  his  kindness 
towards  her,  and  her  avowals  of  her  faith  in  him,  led 
him  insensibly  to  shirk  the  knowledge  that,  after  all, 
he  was  not  what  she  believed  him  to  be. 


XIII. 

ASULJvEN  buzz  of  voices,  a  dazzle  of  light,  a 
crowded  confusion  of  men  and  women  huddled 
together. 

They  passed  the  doorway,  but  they  could  get  no  far- 
ther :  the  room  was  quite  full. 

The  faces  she  saw  were  quite  strange  :  a  grey-haired 
woman  in  a  low-cut  dress  lifted  some  glasses  with  a  long 
handle  to  her  eyes  and  stared.  Some  man  nodded  to 
Hillier  ;  the  rest  did  not  move. 

So  they  stood  there,  hemmed  in  on  all  sides,  looking 
round  them.  She  wanted  to  ask  Hillier  who  the  peo- 
ple were.  But  she  dared  not,  they  were  all.  so  near. 

Disjointed  words,  fragments  of  phrases  reached  her 
ears.  After  a  while,  quite  close,  a  woman's  voice  was 
saying  : 

"  A  simple,  country  girl.  Before  she  met  him  her 
mind  must  have  been  a  blank.  I  guess  it 's  pretty  well 
scored  with  his  scribblings  though  by  this  time.  She 
takes  him,  I  hear,  with  prodigious  solemnity — and  her- 
self too,  for  that  matter. ' ' 

"Yes,  it's  a  great  pity.  Somebody  should  have 
done  something.  But  no  one  knew  of  it  till  it  was 
done.  He  's  made  a  huge  fool  of  himself."  The  voice 

was  a  man's. 

41 


42  Sentimental  Studies 

The  woman's  voice  answered  something  which  she 
could  not  hear. 

She  looked,  and  saw  them  standing  quite  close,  with 
their  backs  turned  towards  her. 

"He's  very  devoted  to  her,"  the  woman's  voice 
began  again. 

The  man  said  something  in  a  lower  tone,  and  the 
woman  laughed. 

"What  girl  wouldn't  under  the  circumstances?" 
he  added. 

"  She  's  sweetly  pretty,  people  say." 

"  Bah  !  the  world  's  stuffed  full  of  pretty  women." 

Hillier's  hand  gripped  her  arm. 

"  Come,  let  's  get  on,"  she  heard  him  saying. 

The  roughness  of  his  tone  startled  her.  She  saw  the 
tight  look  on  his  face.  What  was  the  matter  ? 

He  pressed  forward,  and  as  there  was  not  space 
for  her  to  follow,  he  dragged  at  her  arm.  But  there 
were  no  gaps  in  the  human  wall  in  front.  The  floor 
was  blocked. 

Next,  a  young  man  shook  hands  with  Hillier,  who 
introduced  him  to  her.  He  made  some  remark  about 
the  great  crowd. 

The  voices  began  again  ;  the  woman  was  speak- 
ing. 

"  If  it  's  as  you  say,  she  '11  be  a  great  drag  on  him." 

"  He  's  not  the  sort  of  man  to  enjoy  recognising  his 
own  mistakes — especially  one  of  that  kind." 


A  Commonplace  Chapter  43 

"  Perhaps  he  will  never  recognise  it." 

"  Life  is  long,""  answered  the  man's  voice. 

She  noticed  that  the  young  man  who  had  been  in- 
troduced to  her  was  talking  to  some  one  else.  The 
voices  were  indistinct  now.  Next  she  caught  the 
words : 

"And,  you  know,  he  might  have  married  Mrs. 
Hendrick." 

Mrs.  Hendrick  !  Mrs.  Hendrick  was  a  friend  of 
Hillier's.  In  a  flash  it  came  to  her  that  it  was  of  her 
— and  of  Hillier — that  they  were  talking.  For  a  mo- 
ment the  meaning  of  their  words  vanished,  while 
resentment,  hot  and  reckless,  rose.  She  wanted  to 
walk  straight  up  to  them — there  before  everybody — 
to  tell  them  that  they  were  mean,  cowardly,  hateful. 
Then  the  words  returned,  bringing  dull  pain.  She 
longed  to  be  alone  with  him,  she  was  hungering  for  his 
comfort. 

"  lyet  's  get  out  of  this,"  he  blurted. 

He  had  heard  it  all  too. 

He  pushed  his  way  towards  the  door  ;  she  following, 
dazed.  She  seemed  to  hear  the  voices  still  talking, 
indistinctly,  behind  her. 

When  they  reached  the  landing,  and  were  free  of  the 
crowd,  her  dress  caught  behind  her.  But  he  strode  on, 
holding  her  arm  so  tightly  that  she  could  not  stop,  and 
the  stuff  tore  loudly. 


44  Sentimental  Studies 

He  had  not  spoken  since  they  left  the  house.  In  the 
obscurity  of  the  cab  she  could  not  see  liis  face,  and,  till 
she  had  read  its  expression,  she  shrank  from  speaking. 
Several  times,  -as  they  shot  past  a  lamp-post,  she  threw 
a  furtive  glance  at  him.  But  his  hat  was  tilted  over  his 
eyes,  and  the  light  was  gone,  before  she  could  distin- 
guish anything.  She  rubbed  the  moisture  from  off  a 
corner  of  the  window-pane,  and  peered  out.  Every- 
thing was  dark  and  deserted ;  only  the  gas-lamps 
seemed  awake.  And  the  cab  shot  by  them — one  after 
another — rapidly. 


He  half  wanted  to  speak  to  her,  for  he  was  aware 
that  his  silence  was  cruel ;  that  he  was  playing  an  en- 
tirely ugly  part.  And  the  consciousness  of  how  much 
a  word  of  comfort  would  mean  to  her,  of  his  own  im- 
potence to  speak  it,  and  the  suspicion  that  she  was 
crying,  increased  his  exasperation  considerably,  tempt- 
ing him  to  address  her  brutally. 

He  blamed  her  ;  yet  he  knew  he  had  no  right  to  do 
so  :  he  disliked  her  ;  yet  he  knew  he  was  causing  her 
to  suffer. 

They  reached  home  in  silence. 

In  the  hall,  a  small  impulse  of  remorse  prompted 
him  to  lift  off  her  cloak  for  her  ;  but,  as  he  came  for- 
ward, she  stepped  past  him  with  an  assumption  of 
haughtiness,  so  that  he  could  not  touch  her.  Immedi- 


A  Commonplace  Chapter  45 

ately  the  full  flame  of  his  anger  flared  forth  ;  he  tasted 
an  exasperated  joy  in  that  she  had  at  last  afforded  him 
a  pretext  for  losing  his  self-control. 

He  stepped  into  the  study,  and  slammed  the  door 
behind  him  with  all  his  force. 


In  her  room,  she  sat  down  mechanically,  without 
taking  off  her  cloak.  Her  expression  was  blank  ;  she 
could  not  cry. 

Then  she  struggled  to  comfort  herself.  After  all, 
perhaps  it  didn't  matter  what  people  said  of  her.  It 
would  be  just  the  same  to-morrow. 

She  whispered  to  herself  some  old  words  of  his  : 

"  You  are  the  whole  world  to  me  :  I  cannot  live 
without  you.  I  love  you,  I  love  you,  I  love  you  !  " 
Three  times  he  had  said  it ;  she  shivered,  for,  some- 
how, they  brought  her  no  warmth. 

How  long  would  he  be  down  there  ? 

Oh  !  why  had  it  ever  been  ? 

And,  all  at  once,  her  whole  being  rose  in  fierce  re- 
bellion against  her  married  life ;  she  recalled,  with 
added  bitterness,  her  first  revolt  against  the  revelation 
which  marriage  had  brought. 

She  felt  that  she  hated  the  whole  world,  that  there 
was  no  sweet  savour  left  in  life.  Human  nature,  men 


46  Sentimental  Studies 

and  women,  seemed  hideous,  degraded.  And  she 
hated  herself  because  she  had  become  like  the  rest. 

She  recalled  the  calm  days  of  her  girlhood  with  ex- 
ceeding bitterness.  She  could  never  be  like  that  again. 

Then  she  felt  that  she  could  not  bear  to  speak  to  him 
again  to-night.  When  he  came  up  she  pretended  to 
be  asleep.  He  made  no  attempt  to  wake  her  ;  and, 
before  long,  lie  was  heavily  sleeping  by  her  side. 


XIV. 

THE  next  morning,  as  they  were  preparing  to  get 
up: 

"  I  wish  you'd  put  on  that  blue  dress  you  used  to 
wear  when  we  were  engaged,"  he  said. 

She  had  already  learned  the  intonations  of  his  voice, 
and,  as  he  spoke,  she  recoiled  a  little. 

' '  That  old  thing.     I  could  n't." 

"  I  don't  see  why  not.  You  used  to  look  fifty  times 
better  in  that  than  in  all  these  new  gaudy  arrange- 
ments. ' ' 

The  harshness  of  his  tone  hurt  her  the  more  because 
it  had  come  suddenly,  at  the  very  beginning  of  the  da}-. 

"Oh,  Hillier  !  you  never  said  you  didn't  like  my 
new  dresses,"  she  faltered. 

"  I  only  say  the  other  one  suits  you,  and  these 
don't." 

She  remembered  the  money  they  had  cost,  and  how 
she  had  resolved  to  make  each  last  as  long  as  possible 
to  compensate  for  the  extravagance  of  buying  them. 

"  What 's  wrong  with  them  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  answered  pettishly. 

"  But  tell  me  what  you  don't  like  about  them  and 
I  will  try  to  get  them  altered." 

-47 


48  Sentimental  Studies 

"That's  no  good;  get  a  fresh  lot.  A  different 
shape,  more  flowing  lines,  not  tight  and  stiff."  He 
did  not  look  up ;  he  was  rummaging  among  some 
proofs  on  the  bed. 

"  But  it 's  so  expensive,"  she  pleaded. 

"  I  tell  you  they  don't  suit  you.  How  can  you  wear 
things  that  don't  suit  you?  " 

"  I  think  you  're  horrid,"  she  broke  out,  as  he  went 
into  his  dressing-room. 

When  she  came  down-stairs,  he  was  sitting  reading 
the  proofs  which  were  littered  on  the  floor  round  his 
chair.  He  took  no  notice  of  her  as  she  entered. 

"I  believe  it's  all  because  of  what  those  people 
said  last  night."  Before  the  words  were  all  uttered  she 
was  vaguely  astonished  at  herself,  and  afraid  of  him. 

"  Don't  go  on  nagging  like  that,  you  little  fool ! 
Do  you  hear  ?  "  he  retorted  loudly. 

She  turned  to  the  breakfast-table.  She  glanced  back 
at  him  ;  he  did  not  look  as  if  he  were  sorry  that  he 
had  so  spoken.  Her  resentment  swelled  tumultuously  : 
she  was  shaking  all  over.  If  she  had  been  a  dog  he 
could  not  have  spoken  more  brutally  ;  and  he  had  said 
it  just  as  if  he  were  accustomed  to  speak  to  her  so. 
Then  the  scene,  that  Sunday  morning,  in  the  garden, 
during  the  honeymoon,  came  back  to  her.  Those 
words,  that  tone,  he  had  thrown  them  at  someone  of  the 
other  women,  and  they  had  returned  for  her  to  hear, 
like  an  echo  from  the  past.  All  through  breakfast  she 


49 


continued  to  nurse  this  idea  till  she  could  not  trust 
herself  to  speak  to  him,  so  bitterly  did  she  feel. 

He  went  on  reading  his  proofs  while  he  ate,  and 
when  he  had  done,  gathered  them  together  ostenta- 
tiously, saying  that  he  was  pressed  for  time. 

A  few  minutes  later  the  hall-door  slammed. 

A  wild  impulse  prompted  her  to  write  to  her  mother  ; 
to  tell  her  about  last  night  and  about  the  morning, 
that  he  no  longer  cared  for  her,  that  she  wanted  to 
come  home,  back  to  the  old  life,  never  to  leave  them 
again. 

But  as  she  dipped  the  pen  in  the  ink  the  reaction 
came.  Such  a  letter  would  seem  silly,  excited,  absurd. 
She  left  the  writing-table  and  started  to  busy  herself 
with  other  things. 

4 


XV. 


MEANWHILE  he  was  walking  towards  Hyde 
Park  Corner,  irritated  against  the  people  who 
obstructed  his  path. 

An  obstreperous  November  wind,  gusty  and  biting, 
was  rushing  about  the  streets :  several  ragged,  dark 
clouds  were  careering  across  a  leaden  slab  of  sky.  It 
was  the  beginning  of  winter,  and  he  cursed  the  vile 
climate  of  London  as  only  fit  for  cattle  and  dogs. 

A  press  of  work  owing  to  the  approach  of  Christmas 
had  obliged  him  to  cut  short  his  morning's  walk  ;  and 
this,  for  want  of  a  better  pretext,  increased  his  annoy- 
ance. 

As  he  passed  the  French  Embassy,  a  hansom  drove 
by,  carrying  a  woman  wearing  a  white  veil,  who 
stared  round  at  him  through  the  side  glass.  Before 
he  could  raise  his  hat  in  recognition  she  was  gone.  It 
was  Mrs.  Hendrick. 

The  words  "  And  he  might  have  married  Mrs.  Hen- 
drick ' '  threw  a  whole  new  light  upon  her,  revealing 
of  a  sudden  the  reason  of  many  things  in  the  past. 
How  blind  he  must  have  been  never  to  have  perceived 

it   before  !      Of  course   it    was   he   that   she   wanted. 

50 


A  Commonplace  Chapter  51 

How  she  had  done  her  best  to  tell  him  this,  and  how 
obstinately  he  had  shut  his  eyes  !  If  he  had  only 
known,  all  sorts  of  curious  things  might  have  hap- 
pened. 

Probably  she  was  quite  forty  ;  for  she  had  wrinkles 
under  her  eyes  and  round  her  mouth,  and  her  skin, 
white  as  it  was,  was  altogether  opaque.  Yes,  cer- 
tainly she  looked  best  in  evening  dress  or,  at  twilight, 
in  a  pallid-gold  tea-gown  which  matched  her  hair. 
And  she  had  seven  thousand  a  year. 

He  recalled  his  meeting  with  that  ruffian  Hendrick, 
her  husband,  a  fortnight  after  she  had  divorced  him — 
jovial  and  superb  in  spite  of  his  grey  hairs — bank- 
ing in  the  baccarat-rooms  at  Aix-les-Bains.  He  had 
chatted  with  the  fellow  afterwards  on  the  balcony  of  the 
Cerclc.  Hendrick  had  talked  the  case  over  shamelessly. 

He  remembered  certain  things  which  the  man  had 
hinted  to  him  concerning  her — things  which  no  one 
but  Hendrick  could  have  known  ;  and  he  wondered 
more  than  ever  at  himself  how  it  was  he  had  never 
noticed. 

Mrs.  Hendrick  had  never  been  to  see  Ella.  The  jux- 
taposition of  the  two  women  in  his  mind  produced  an 
only  half-stifled  movement  of  repentance,  and  of  shame 
at  his  own  behaviour  this  morning.  Yet,  he  argued, 
there  was  nothing  against  Mrs.  Hendrick  ;  few  women 
could  have  gone  through  such  a  case  so  satisfactorily. 


52  Sentimental  Studies 

By-and-bye,  in  the  afternoon,  he  received  a  commis- 
sion to  write  for  an  important  review  a  survey  of  the 
year's  literature. 

This  unexpected  stroke  of  good  fortune,  and  the 
thought  that  he  might  have  married  Mrs.  Hendrick, 
lent  an  elasticity  to  his  gait  as  he  walked  home. 


XVI. 

H,  I'm  so  glad  !  "  she  exclaimed,  when  he  had 
finished  telling  her  of  his  success.  "  And, 
Hillier,  Mrs.  Hendrick  has  been  here." 

"  She  ought  to  have  come  before."  There  was  an 
insincere  note  of  grievance  in  his  tone.  "Well,  how 
did  she  seem  ? ' ' 

"  I  don't  know  .  .  .  she  was  very  nice,  and 
stayed  a  long  time.  She  said  she  had  seen  you  from 
a  hansom  this  morning,  and  that  reminded  her  of  her 
negligence.  She  asked  me  to  go  to  see  her  on  Tuesday 
„.  .  .  It 's  so  difficult,  Hillier.  .  .  .  She's  much 
older  than  I  expected.  I  thought  she  must  be  quite  a 
young  woman." 

"Why  ?" 

"Because  I  heard  that  man  say  the  other  evening 
that — that  you  might  have  married  her.  .  .  .  And 
it  seemed  so — absurd."  She  brought  out  the  words 
bravely,  though  a  little  tremulously. 

He  said  nothing  ;  so  she  went  on  more  hurriedly. 

"It  isn't  true,  Hillier,  is  it  ? — tell  me — that  she  was 
one  of  those  .  .  .  you  know,  that  afternoon  in 

the  garden.     .     .     . 

53 


54  Sentimental  Studies 

"  No,  of  course  not." 

"  Will  you  promise  me,  Hillier?  " 

"You  don't  believe  me,  then?"  he  exclaimed,  al- 
most angrily. 

"  Yes,  dear — only  I  wanted  to  be  sure." 

"  Well,  then,  I  swear  it.     Now  are  you  satisfied  ?  " 

' '  But  she  was  a  great  friend  of  yours. ' ' 

"  I  knew  her  a  good  deal.  She  was  married  to  a 
brute  of  a  man  who  used  to  treat  her  like  a  dog." 

And  he  told  her  something  of  the  rest. 

"  But  her  husband — where  's  her  husband  now  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  ;  in  Paris,  probably." 

"  Didn't  he  care,  then?" 

' '  Not  a  rap. ' ' 

"  How  horrible  !  -How  long  had  they  been  married  ?  " 

' '  Fifteen  years.  Why  on  earth  she  put  up  with  him 
so  long,  I  can't  imagine.  It  was  only  when  he  took  to 
bringing  his — mistresses — to  the  house  that  she  di- 
vorced him." 

"  Poor  woman  !     How  she  must  have  suffered  !  " 

There  was  a  pause.     Then  she  added  : 

"  Hillier,  I  'm  so  glad  she  came.  I  want  her  to  like 
me — to  be  friends  with  me — because  I  think  she  likes 
you  very  much." 

"  What  makes  you  think  that  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know — but  I  'm  sure  she  does." 

And  he  did  not  mention  the  article  to  her. 


XVII. 

THERE  lurked,  beneath  the  sweetness  of  Mrs. 
Hendrick's  smile,  and  the  gentleness  of  her 
voice,  and  the  fragility  of  her  whole  appearance,  an 
air  of  bitterness,  restrained  and  refined.  After  the  ex- 
posure of  her  husband's  cruelty,  a  section  of  Society 
had  considered  itself  justified  in  proclaiming  an  em- 
phatic sympathy  with  her  wrongs  ;  women  discussed 
her  with  long-drawn  exclamations  ;  men  lowered  their 
voices  when  they  spoke  to  her ;  people,  whose  faces 
were  unfamiliar,  gushed  with  affectionate  sympathy  ; 
some  boldly  indiscreet  ;  others  affecting  tact ;  and 
those  who  had  known  her  longer  vindicated  effusively 
their  right  to  correct  the  general  curiosity  concerning 
her.  Her  worn  beauty  was  in  harmony  with  her  new 
position  ;  and  those  who  were  busy  with  her,  hailed 
this  harmony  with  satisfaction,  affording,  as  it  did,  a 
fresh  subject  for  comment.  And  lastly,  the  large  for- 
tune which  she  inherited  just  five  weeks  after  she  had 
regained  her  freedom,  made  her  acquaintances  more 
anxious  than  ever  to  assist  her  in  the  arrangement  of 
her  existence. 

But  by  none  of  these  things  was  she  deceived,  for 
55 


56  Sentimental  Studies 

• 

just  then  she  was  disinterested  enough  in  the  course  of 
her  own  existence  to  perceive  that  it  all  was  entirely 
natural.  And  so,  her  attitude  towards  the  world  re- 
mained inert,  apathetic,  full  of  tired  reserve.  She  re- 
pulsed people  wearily,  though  politely  ;  she  was  aware 
that  she  had  no  appetite  for  the  cheap  consolations  they 
had  to  offer  her.  To  abandon  herself  to  her  lassitude, 
to  rest,  to  sleep,  to  forget,  to  put  time  between  the 
present  and  the  past — these  were  her  longings. 

By-and-bye  there  came  with  her  wealth  a  clearer 
realisation  of  her  freedom,  which  made  her  wearily 
wonder  why  she  had  submitted  so  long,  why  she  had 
thus  wasted  the  best  years  of  her  life. 

At  these  moments  she  marvelled  bitterly  at  him  who 
had  been  her  husband  ;  at  his  jovial  insensibility,  at 
the  satisfaction,  facile  and  complete,  which  his  simple 
sensuality  afforded  him.  She  hated  him  ;  for  she  knew 
that  he  did  not  care.  Thus,  indifferent  to  the  present, 
hopeless  with  regard  to  the  future,  she  saw  everything 
as  dreary,  colourless.  It  was  as  if  the  corner  she  had 
just  turned  had  brought  her  face  to  face  with  a  dead 
wall. 

Occasionally  some  sharp  phrase  of  the  simple-minded 
old  relative,  who  had  come  to  live  with  her,  made  her 
conscious  of  her  listlessness  ;  and  then,  she  rated  her- 
self morbid,  or  hard,  selfish,  incapable  of  emotion,  and 
mused  how  it  would  have  been  if  she  had  had  a  child. 

Yet  she  continued  to  fulfil  the  engagements  which 


A  Commonplace  Chapter  57 

Society  made  for  her,  because  the  effort  of  escaping 
from  them  seemed  beyond  her  strength. 

And  all  this  was  two  years  ago. 

It  was  down  in  Norfolk,  at  a  country-house,  where 
they  were  fellow-guests,  that  her  acquaintanceship 
with  Hillier  Haselton  had  developed  into  intimacy. 

He,  the  morning  of  his  arrival,  had  related  to  her— 
with  a  careless  audacity  that  she  set  down  as  rare  tact 
—how  he  had  met  Henry  Hendrick  on  the  Continent  a 
fortnight  before.  This  placed  him,  in  her  eyes,  in  a 
slightly  privileged  position,  which  he  was  not  slow  to 
assume.  So,  somehow  she  drifted  into  talking  to  him 
about  herself ;  on  the  terrace,  after  breakfast,  smoking 
a  cigarette,  he  would  saunter  with  her,  up  and  down  ; 
he  would  fetch  a  basket-chair,  and  sit  by  her  on  the 
lawn,  while  the  rest  played  tennis ;  he  would  row  her 
on  the  lake  in  the  late  afternoon. 

It  only  lasted  a  week,  but  they  were  much  alone  to- 
gether, and  their  conversation  glided  insensibly  into  a 
tone  of  intimate  seriousness.  She  hinted  to  him,  at 
certain  moments  of  eager  expansion,  of  things  con- 
cerning herself  which,  when  she  recalled  them  after- 
wards, scared  her ;  yet  the  next  day  she  would  begin 
again  to  tell  him  more.  She  could  not  help  herself. 

Before  he  left,  she  had  told  him  of  her  gratitude  ; 
though,  indeed,  she  could  not  say  what  it  was  that  he 
had  done  for  her  ;  only  that  she  understood  how  unglad 
her  heart  had  been  before,  and  that  the  common  things 


58  Sentimental  Studies 

of  life  looked  less  cheerless.  Perhaps  it  was  a  little  the 
consciousness  of  her  wealth,  and  the  new  power  it 
brought  to  her  ;  for  she  had  confided  to  him,  timidly, 
her  secret  wish  to  employ  a  large — a  very  large — por- 
tion of  it  towards  helping  the  outcast  children  of  the 
great  cities,  and  he  had  taken  up  this  desire  of  hers, 
encouraged  it,  expanded  it,  given  it,  as  it  seemed  to 
her,  practical  shape.  And  on  this  section  of  human 
suffering  he  spoke  simply,  with  no  affectation  of  false 
sentiment ;  so  that  to  discuss  it  with  him  was  in  no 
wi.se  difficult,  as  was  the  case  with  other  people. 

He  seemed  to  her  strong,    fearless,    a   man  of  fine 
fibre. 


A  month  passed,  and  then  they  were  both  back  in 
London.  He  came  one  afternoon  when  she  had  other 
visitors  ;  he  only  stayed  a  short  while,  but  she  learned 
that  he  had  not  forgotten  the  "  scheme,"  as  he  called 
it,  that  he  had  been  busying  himself  with  its  realisa- 
tion. And  that,  amid  the  stress  of  his  own  work,  he 
should  have  found  time  to  help  her,  touched  her  ex- 
ceedingly, and  intensified  her  admiration. 

She  saw  him  again,  not  unfrequently,  for  they  had 
many  friends  in  common  ;  yet  they  never  again  got 
beyond  the  superficial  small-talk  of  mere  acquaintances. 
She  shrank,  somehow,  from  any  attempt  to  renew  their 
intimacy. 


A  Commonplace  Chapter  59 

Once  more  he  inquired  concerning  the  "  scheme"  ; 
but  on  learning  that  it  was  proceeding  satisfactorily,  he 
passed  to  another  topic.  He  seemed  unwilling  that 
they  should  talk  again  as  they  had  talked,  in  the  sum- 
mer, down  in  Norfolk. 

So  they  drifted  apart  ;  she  attributed  it  to  his  busy 
life  which  left  him  so  little  leisure  ;  and  she  retained 
in  her  mind  a  clear  image  of  him,  as  he  had  first  ap- 
peared to  her — strong,  fearless,  a  man  of  fine  fibre. 


And  now,  he  was  married — a  penniless  clergyman's 
daughter — a  love- marriage,  accomplished  quietly, 
secretly  almost,  in  defiance  of  every  worldly  interest. 

She  thought  it  very  characteristic  of  him. 

All  her  interest  in  him  revived.  Yes,  she  might 
make  friends  with  his  wife,  help  her  in  little  ways ; 
and  thus,  indirectly,  she  would  be  of  use  to  him.  This 
idea  grew  rapidly  in  her  mind ;  she  was  very  eager  to 
be  friends  with  his  wife. 


XVIII. 

EL,L,A  by  this  time  possessed  a  large  number  of  ac- 
quaintances, but  she  sought  out  the  society  of 
no  one  of  them,  content  that  they  should  remain  on  the 
fringe,  as  it  were,  of  her  life.  Her  natural  reserve  ex- 
empted her  from  the  temptation  to  entrust  to  others  a 
selection  of  her  inmost  feelings  ;  and  she  had  no  skill 
in  superficial  companionship.  Thus  she  made  no 
friends. 

It  was  commonly  reported  that  she  "  had  not  much 
in  her"  ;  or  by  others  more  shallow  in  thought  and 
acrid  of  speech,  that  she  was  "  quite  stupid."  Many 
tongues  were  busy  with  explanations  of  Hillier  Hasel- 
ton's  marriage  with  the  commonplace  daughter  of  a 
country  parson,  remarking  how  frequently  brilliant 
men  tied  themselves  to  dull  women. 

And,  since  the  other  evening,  she  had  been  growing 
more  and  more  acutely  sensible  to  all  this ;  the  smart 
that  had  been  inflicted  had  endowed  her,  for  the  mo- 
ment, with  bitter  perspicacity  ;  she  was  convincing 
herself  that  every  one  whom  she  met  regarded  her  in 
the  same  light. 

More  than  ever  she  sent  her  heart  out  towards  her 
60 


A  Commonplace  Chapter  61 

husband  ;  starting  afresh  to  urge  herself  to  admire 
him  extravagantly  ;  stifling  her  sense  of  feverish  inse- 
curity, or  attributing  it  to  physical  causes. 

She  was  disturbed,  puzzled  too,  by  Mrs.  Hendrick. 
She  was  not  jealous  ;  that  would  have  been  ridiculous. 
She  did  not  dislike  her  ;  that  would  have  been  treacher- 
ous. Hillier  liked  talking  to  Mrs.  Hendrick  ;  when 
she  came  to  dinner,  and  when  they  went  to  the  big 
house  in  Grosvenor  Place,  he  was  in  high  spirits,  al- 
ways. And,  of  late,  except  on  these  occasions,  he  had 
been  moody,  dispirited  ;  the  edge  of  his  buoyancy  was 
blunted  ;  he  was  overworking  himself. 

No,  she  was  not  jealous  ;  for  Mrs.  Hendrick  liked 
talking  to  her,  too,  and  was  constantly  proposing  that 
they  should  drive  together — to  a  private  view,  or  to  an 
afternoon  party.  No,  she  did  not  dislike  Mrs.  Hen- 
drick ;  for  Mrs.  Hendrick  was  kind,  gentle,  sweet. 


XIX. 

THE  greater  part  of  the  afternoon  he  had  been  in 
his  office,  glancing  through  a  manuscript. 

Suddenly,  while  he  was  crossing  the  room  to  consult 
a  volume  on  the  shelves,  the  impulse  to  go  and  see 
Mrs.  Hendrick  laid  hold  upon  him.  It  brought  at 
once  a  feeling  of  excited  unrest.  He  felt  sick  of  work 
and  cooped  up  in  the  room,  which  seemed  dingy  and 
full  of  dust.  The  desire  to  get  out,  to  some  immediate 
change,  some  outside  excitement,  became  imperious. 

What  a  long  while  it  was  since  he  had  seen  her 
alone  !  Not  since  that  time  two  years  ago.  Certain 
incidents  came  back  to  him  again.  How  was  it  he 
had  been  so  indifferent  then  ?  He  tried  to  flatter  him- 
self by  the  recollection  of  this  indifference  of  his ;  but 
the  effort  was  unsuccessful. 

At  that  moment  he  entirely  accepted  the  fact  that  he 
was  tired  of  his  wife.  And,  since  he  attributed  this  to 
some  vague  superiority  in  himself,  it  was  without  a 
pang  that  he  shattered  the  whole  accumulated  fabric 
of  his  former  conceptions  of  the  possibilities  of  his 
marriage.  Not  that  it  once  seemed  that  he  had  com- 
mitted a  piece  of  folly  ;  for  he  was  ready  to  blame  her 

62 


A  Commonplace  Chapter  63 

that  she  did  not  satisfy  him.  Yes,  she  did  not  satisfy 
him  ;  and  he  clutched  at  this  explanation  as  a  justifi- 
cation for  his  recent  vague  dreamings  concerning  other 
women.  It  was  no  particular  woman  that  he  was  pic- 
turing to  himself,  but  certain  types  of  women  which 
were  wholly  different  from  Ella.  The  actual  possibility 
of  unfaithfulness  to  her  he  had  never  faced  ;  though, 
perhaps,  he  had  been  very  near  indeed  to  doing  so — 
certainly  much  nearer  than  he  himself  imagined.  But 
then  he  had  always  taken  for  granted  that  he  was  not 
a  brute.  He  had  only  been  married  a  few  months,  and 
he  knew  of  no  one — except  notorious  scoundrels — who 
had  done  that  thing  after  a  few  months. 

So  he  went  out,  and  drove  to  Grosvenor  Place. 


XX. 

SHE  was  at  home.  The  servant  showed  him  into 
the  drawing-room — a  charming  room  arranged 
in  sound  taste,  he  had  always  thought  it.  To-day  the 
furniture  was  all  clothed  in  shiny,  stiff  chintzes,  which 
lent  a  cold,  uncomfortable  look.  He  paced  up  and 
down  restlessly,  anxiously  curious  concerning  what 
was  about  to  happen.  In  half  an  hour  it  would  be 
over,  he  told  himself.  What  would  be  his  position 
then  ?  Yet  he  had  no  fixed  idea  as  to  what  he  was 
going  to  do.  He  lifted  a  red  book  from  off  the  writing- 
table,  opened  it,  and  began  to  read  the  names  ab- 
sently— Williamson,  Williamson,  Williamson,  Willie, 
Willington,  Wilkie.  He  shut  the  book  and  replaced  it. 
What  was  he  going  to  do  ? 

On  the  mantelpiece  he  caught  sight  of  Ella's  photo- 
graph— an  old  likeness  taken  before  their  marriage. 
The  lips  were  parted  in  a  faint  smile,  and  the  rose- 
tinted  background  lent  delicacy  and  sweetness  to  the 
face.  It  was  very  like  her.  He  realised  rapidly  that 
his  passion  had  certainly  dwindled  ;  that  the  sight  of 
the  photograph  caused  him  no  vibration  of  emotion. 


64 


The  door  opened,  Mrs.  Hendrick  came  forward,  her 
hand  outstretched  frankly,  cordially. 

He  met  her,  still  holding  the  photograph  in  his  left 
hand. 

She  noticed  it,  and  smiled,  then  began  : 

"I'm  so  glad  we 've  made  such  friends,  Mr.  Hasel- 
ton.  I  can't  tell  you  how  much  I  like  her.  You  must 
be  very,  very  happy." 

"  Yes,"  he  answered  instantly.  "I  am  completely 
happy." 

11  That 's  right,  for  you  deserve  it." 

"  Why  ?  "  he  asked,  assuming  a  blank  expression. 

"Because — well,  you  know,  I've  always  thought 
of  you  as  one  of  those  people  who  have  a  right  to  the 
best  things  of  life.  When  I  first  heard  that  you  were 
married,  before  I  knew  your  wife,  I  was  sure  you  had 
done  the  best  thing." 

"  But  why?  "  he  repeated  mechanically. 

"Oh,  because  I  was  sure  you  would  do  the  right 
thing." 

He  perceived  that  she  was  quite  genuine  in  speaking 
to  him  thus,  and  he  was  not  a  little  disappointed  ;  her 
seriousness  exasperated  him  ;  she  suddenly  became 
to  him  wholly  uninteresting  ;  he  wanted  her  no 
longer. 

They  talked  on  about  his  wife  ;  by-and-bye,  to  change 
the  topic,  and  to  cover  his  indifference  to  her,  he  asked 
concerning  her  Home,  and  she  recounted  at  considerable 


66  Sentimental  Studies 


length  how  it  was  thriving,  and  of  the  peace  of  mind 
that  the  work  had  brought  her. 

When  she  seemed  to  have  finished  he  rose,  saying 
that  he  must  be  getting  home.  Laughingly  she  begged 
him  to  replace  the  photograph,  which,  unconsciously, 
he  had  been  holding  in  his  left  hand  all  the  while. 
He  did  so  with  a  well-simulated  smile,  and  offered  her 
a  cheque  in  aid  of  the  Home  ;  but  she  shook  her  head, 
still  laughing,  telling  him  to  buy  his  wife  a  present 
with  it  instead. 

And  she  bid  him  good-bye  just  as  she  had  met  him, 
frankly,  cordially. 

In  Bond  Street  he  stopped  to  look  at  some  diamonds 
flashing  in  a  jeweller's  window;  two  pretty  women 
were  giggling  together  by  his  side,  and  he  wondered 
vaguely  what  he  would  do  if  anything  were  to  happen 
to  his  wife. 


A  COMMONPLACE  CHAPTER.— II. 


T 


I. 

HIS  was  four  years  later. 


She  sat  in  a  corner  of  a  large  London  drawing-room, 

and  the  two  men  stood  before  her — Hillier  Haselton, 
her  husband,  and  George  Swann,  her  husband's  cousin  ; 
and,  beyond  them,  the  mellow  light  of  shaded  candles, 
vague  groupings  of  black  coats,  white  shirt-fronts,  and 
gay-tinted  dresses  ;  and  the  noisy  hum  of  conversation. 

The  subject  that  the  two  men  were  discussing — and 
more  especially  Swann' s  blunt  earnestness — stirred  her, 
though  throughout  it  she  had  been  unpleasantly  con- 
scious of  a  smallness,  almost  a  pettiness,  in  Hillier' s 
aspect. 

"  Well,  but  why  not,  my  dear  Swann  ?  Why  not  be 
unjust?  man's  been  unjust  to  woman  for  so  many 
years. ' ' 

Hillier  let  his  voice  fall  listlessly,  as  if  to  rebuke  the 
other's  vehemence  ;  and,  to  hint  that  he  was  tired  of 
the  topic,  looked  round  at  his  wife,  noting  at  the  same 

67 


68  Sentimental  Studies 


time  that  Swann  was  observing  how  he  held  her  gaze 
in  his  meaningly.  And  the  unexpectedness  of  his  own 
attitude  charmed  him — his  hot  defence  of  an  absurd 
theory,  obviously  evoked  by  a  lover-like  desire  to 
please  her.  Others,  whose  admiration  he  could  trust, 
would,  he  surmised,  have  reckoned  it  a  pretty  pose. 
And  she,  perceiving  that  Swann  seemed  to  take  her 
husband's  sincerity  for  granted,  felt  a  sting  of  quick 
regret  that  she  had  ever  come  to  understand  him,  and 
that  she  could  not  still  view  him  as  they  all  viewed 
him. 

Hillier  moved  away  across  the  room,  and  Swann 
drew  a  stool  beside  her  chair,  and  asking  her  for  news 
of  Claude,  her  little  boy,  talked  to  her  of  other  things — 
quite  simply,  for  they  were  grown  like  old  friends. 
He  looked  at  her  steadily,  stroking  his  rough,  fair 
beard,  as  if  he  were  anxious  to  convey  to  her  something 
which  he  could  not  put  into  words.  She  divined  :  and, 
a  little  startled,  tried  to  thank  him  with  her  eyes  ;  but, 
embarrassed  by  the  clumsiness  of  his  own  attempt  at 
sympathetic  perception,  he  evidently  noticed  nothing. 
And  this  obtuseness  of  his  disappointed  her,  since  it 
somehow  .seemed  to  confirm  her  isolation. 

vShe  glanced  round  the  room.  Hillier  stood  on  the 
hearth-rug,  his  elbow  on  the  mantelpiece,  busily  talk- 
ing with  slight,  deferential  gestures  to  the  great  Eng- 
lish actress  in  whose  honour  the  dinner  had  been  given. 
The  light  fell  on  his  smooth,  glistening  hair,  on  his 


A  Commonplace  Chapter  69 

quick,  sensitive  face  ;  for  the  moment,  forcing  herself 
to  realise  him  as  he  appeared  to  the  rest,  she  felt  a 
thrill  of  jaded  pride  in  him,  in  his  cleverness,  in  his 
reputation,  in  his  social  success. 

Swann,  observing  the  direction  of  her  gaze,  said 
almost  apologetically  : 

"  You  must  be  very  proud  of  him." 

She  nodded,  smiling  a  faint,  assumed  smile  ;  then 
added,  adopting  his  tone  : 

"  His  success  has  made  him  so  happy." 

' '  And  you  too  ?  "  he  queried. 

"Of  course,"  she  answered  quickly. 

He  stayed  silent,  while  she  continued  to  watch  her 
husband  absently. 


II. 


SUCCESS,  an  atmosphere  of  flattery,  suited  Hillier 
Haselton,  and  stimulating  his  weaknesses,  con- 
tinually encouraged  him  to  display  the  handsomer  por- 
tion of  his  nature.  For  though  he  was  yet  young — 
and  looked  still  younger — there  was  always  apparent, 
beneath  his  frank,  boyish  relish  of  praise,  a  semblance 
of  serious  modesty,  a  strain  of  genuine  reserve.  And 
society — the  smart,  literary  society  that  had  taken  him 
up — found  this  combination  charming.  So  success 
had  made  life  pleasant  for  him  in  many  ways,  and 
he  rated  its  value  accordingly  ;  he  was  too  able  a  man 
to  find  pleasure  in  the  facile  forms  of  conceit,  or  to 
accept,  with  more  than  a  certain  cynical  complacency, 
the  world's  generous  judgment  on  his  work.  Indeed, 
the  whole  chorus  of  admiration  did  but  strengthen  his 
contempt  for  contemporary  literary  judgments — a  con- 
tempt which,  lending  the  dignity  of  deliberate  purpose 
to  his  indulgence  in  his  own  weakness  for  adulation- 
procured  him  a  refined,  a  private,  and  an  altogether 
agreeable  self-satisfaction.  When  people  set  him  down 
as  vastly  clever,  he  was  pleased  ;  he  was  unreasonably 

annoyed  when  they  spoke  of  him  as  a  great  genius. 

70 


A  Commonplace  Chapter  71 

Life,  he  would  repeat,  was  of  larger  moment  than 
literature  ;  and,  despite  all  the  freshness  of  his  success, 
his  interest  in  himself,  in  the  play  of  his  own  person- 
ality, remained  keener,  and,  in  its  essence,  of  more 
lasting  a  nature  than  his  ambition  for  genuine  achieve- 
ment. The  world — people  with  whom  he  was  brought 
into  relation — stimulated  him  so  far  as  he  could  assimi- 
late them  to  his  conception  of  his  own  attitude ;  most 
forms  of  art  too,  in  great  measure — and  music  alto- 
gether— attracted  him  in  the  proportion  that  they 
played  upon  his  intimate  emotions.  Similarly  his 
friendships  ;  and  for  this  reason  he  preferred  the  com- 
panionship of  women.  But  since  his  egoism  was  un- 
commonly dexterous,  he  seemed  endowed  with  a  rare 
gift  of  artistic  perception,  of  psychological  insight,  of 
personal  charm. 

It  had  always  been  his  nature  to  live  almost  exclu- 
sively in  the  present ;  his  recollection  of  past  impres- 
sions was  grown  scanty  from  habitual  disuse.  His 
sordid  actions  in  the  past  he  forgot  with  an  ever-increas- 
ing facility  ;  his  moments  of  generosity  or  self-sacrifice 
he  remembered  carelessly,  and  enjoyed  a  secret  pride  in 
their  concealment ;  and  the  conscious  embellishment  of 
subjective  experience  for  the  purpose  of  "copy,"  he 
had  instinctively  disdained. 

Since  his  boyhood,  religion  had  been  distasteful  to 
him,  though,  at  rare  moments,  it  had  stirred  his  sensi- 
bilities strangely.  Now,  occasionally,  the  thought  of 


72  Sentimental  Studies 

the  nullity  of  life,  of  its  great,  unsatisfying  quality,  of 
the  horrid  squalor  of  death,  would  descend  upon  him 
with  its  crushing,  paralysing  weight ;  and  he  would 
lament,  with  bitter,  futile  regret,  his  lack  of  a  secure 
standpoint,  and  the  continual  limitations  of  his  self- 
absorption  ;  but  even  that,  perhaps,  was  a  mere  liter- 
ary melancholy,  assimilated  from  certain  passages  by 
Pierre  Loti. 

But,  now,  he  had  published  a  stout  volume  of  criti- 
cal essays,  and  an  important  volume  of  poetry,  and 
society  had  clamorously  ratified  his  own  conception  of 
himself.  Certainly,  now,  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  it 
was  agreed  beyond  dispute  that  she,  his  wife,  was  of 
quite  lesser  importance.  "She  was  nice  and  quiet," 
which  meant  that  she  seemed  mildly  insignificant ; 
' '  she  had  a  sense  of  humour, ' '  which  meant  that  an 
odd  note  of  half-stifled  cynicism  sometimes  escaped 
her.  He  was  evidently  very  devoted  to  her,  and  on 
that  account  women  trusted  him— all  the  more  because 
her  personality  possessed  no  obvious  glamour.  Per- 
haps, now  and  then,  his  attentions  to  her  in  public 
seemed  a  little  ostentatious  ;  but  then,  in  these  modern, 
uncourtly  days,  that  in  itself  was  distinctive.  In  pri- 
vate too,  especially  at  the  moments  when  he  found  life 
stimulating,  he  was  still  tactful  and  expansive  with 
sympathetic  impulse  ;  from  habit ;  from  pride  in  his 
comprehension  of  women  ;  from  dislike  to  cheap  hy- 
pocrisy. How  could  he  have  divined  that  bitter,  sup- 


73 


pressed  seriousness  with  which  she  had  taken  her 
disillusionment,  when  not  once  in  three  months  did 
he  consider  her  apart  from  the  play  of  his  own  person- 
ality, otherwise  than  in  the  light  of  her  initial  attitude 
towards  him  ? 

And  her  disillusionment,  how  had  it  come?  Cer- 
tainly, not  with  a  rush  of  sudden,  overwhelming  reve- 
lation :  certainly,  it  was  in  no  wise  inspired  by  the 
tragedy  of  Nora  Helmer.  It  had  been  a  gradual 
growth,  to  whose  obscure  and  trivial  beginnings  she 
had  not  had  the  learning  to  ascribe  their  true  signifi- 
cance. To  sound  the  current  of  life  was  not  her  way. 
She  was  naive  by  nature  ;  and  the  ignorance  of  her 
girlhood  had  been  due,  rather  to  a  natural  inobserv- 
ance,  than  to  carefully  managed  surroundings.  And 
yet,  she  had  come  to  disbelieve  in  Hillier  ;  to  discredit 
his  clever  attractiveness  :  she  had  become  acutely  sen- 
sitive to  his  instability,  and,  with  a  secret,  instinctive 
obstinacy,  to  mistrust  the  world's  praise  of  his  work. 
Perhaps  had  he  made  less  effort  in  the  beginning  to 
achieve  a  brilliancy  of  attitude  in  her  eyes ;  had  he 
schooled  her  to  expect  from  him  a  lesser  loftiness  of 
aspiration,  things  might  have  been  very  different ;  or 
at  least,  there  might  have  resulted  from  the  process  of 
her  disillusionment  a  lesser  bitterness  of  conviction. 
But  she  had  taken  her  marriage  with  so  keen  an  ear- 
nestness of  ideal,  had  noted  every  turn  in  his  personal- 
ity with  so  intense  an  expectation.  Perhaps,  too,  had 


74  Sentimental  Studies 


he  detected  the  first  totterings  of  her  ideal  conception 
of  him  ;  had  he  aided  her,  as  it  were,  to  descend  his 
figure  from  that  pedestal,  where  he  himself  had  origi- 
nally planted  it,  together  they  might  have  set  it  unin- 
jured on  a  lower  and  less  exposed  plane.  But  he  had 
never  heeded  her  subtle  indications  of  its  insecurity  : 
alone,  she  had  watched  its  peril,  awaiting  with  a  fright- 
ened fascination  the  day  when  it  should  roll  headlong 
in  the  dust.  And,  at  intervals,  she  would  vaguely 
marvel,  when  she  observed  others,  whose  superior  per- 
spicacity she  assumed,  display  no  perception  of  his 
insincerity.  Then  the  oppressive  sense  that  she — she, 
his  wife,  the  mother  of  his  child — was  the  only  one 
who  saw  him  clearly,  and  the  unsurmountable  shrink- 
ing from  the  relief  of  sharing  this  sense  with  any  one, 
made  her  sourly  sensitive  to  the  pettiness,  the  mean- 
ness, the  hidden,  tragic  element  in  life. 

A  gulf  had  grown  between  them — that  was  how  she 
described  it  to  herself.  Outwardly  their  relations  re- 
mained the  same  ;  but  frequently,  in  his  continuance 
of  his  former  attitude,  she  detected  traces  of  deliberate 
effort ;  frequently,  when  off  his  guard,  he  would  aban- 
don all  pretension  to  it,  and  openly  betray  how  little 
she  had  come  to  mean  to  him.  There  were,  of  course, 
moments  also,  when,  at  the  echo  of  his  tenderness,  she 
would  feverishly  compel  herself  to  believe  in  its  gen- 
uineness ;  but  a  minute  later,  he  would  have  forgotten 
his  exaltation,  and,  almost  with  irritation,  would  de- 


A  Commonplace  Chapter  75 

liberately  ignore  the  tense  yearning  that  was  glowing 
within  her. 

And  so  the  coming  of  his  success — a  brilliant  blos- 
soming into  celebrity — had  stirred  her  but  fitfully. 
Critics  wrote  of  the  fine  sincerity  of  his  poetry  ;  while 
she  clung  obstinately  to  her  superstition  that  fine 
poetry  must  be  the  outcome  of  a  great  nobility  of  char- 
acter. And,  sometimes,  she  hated  all  this  .success  of 
his,  because  it  seemed  to  emphasise  the  gulf  between 
them,  and,  in  some  inexplicable  way,  to  lessen  her 
value  in  his  eyes  ;  then  again,  from  an  impulse  of  sheer 
unselfishness,  she  would  succeed  in  almost  welcoming 
it,  because,  after  all,  he  was  her  husband. 

But  of  all  this  he  noted  nothing  ;  only  now  and  then 
he  would  remind  himself  vaguely  that  she  had  no  lit- 
erary leanings. 

The  little  Claude  was  three  years  old.  Before  his 
birth,  Hillier  had  dilated  much  on  the  mysterious 
beauty  of  childhood,  had  vied  with  her  own  awed  ex- 
pectation of  the  wonderful,  coming  joy.  During  her 
confinement,  which  had  been  a  severe  one,  for  three 
nights  in  succession  he  had  sat,  haggard  with  sleepless 
anxiety,  on  a  stiff-backed  dining-room  chair,  till  all 
danger  was  passed.  But  afterwards  the  baby  had  dis- 
appointed him  sorely  ;  and  later,  she  thought  he  came 
near  actively  disliking  it.  Still,  reminding  herself  of 
the  winsomeness  of  other  children  at  the  first  awaken- 
ing of  intelligence,  she  waited  with  patient  hopefulness, 


76  Sentimental  Studies 

fondly  fancying  a  beautiful  boy-child  :  wide,  baby  eyes  ; 
a  delicious  prattle.  Claude,  however,  attained  no  pret- 
tiness,  as  he  grew  :  from  an  unattractive  baby  he  be- 
came an  unattractive  child,  with  lanky,  carroty  hair  ; 
a  squat  nose  ;  an  ugly,  formless  mouth.  And,  in  addi- 
tion, he  was  fretful,  mischievous,  self-willed.  Hillier 
at  this  time  paid  him  but  a  perfunctory  attention  ; 
avoided  discussing  him  ;  and,  when  that  was  not  pos- 
sible, adopted  a  subtle,  aggrieved  tone  that  cut  her  to 
the  quick.  For  she  adored  the  child  ;  adored  him  be- 
cause he  was  hers  ;  adored  him  for  his  very  defects ; 
adored  him  because  of  her  own  suppressed  sadness  ; 
adored  him  for  the  prospect  of  the  future — his  educa- 
tion, his  development,  his  gradual  growth  into  man- 
hood. 

From  the  house  in  Cromwell  Road  the  Haseltons 
had  moved  to  a  flat  near  Victoria  Station  :  their  means 
were  moderate  ;  but  now,  through  the  death  of  a  rela- 
tive, Hillier  was  no  longer  dependent  upon  literature 
for  a  living. 


Ill 


GEORGE  SWANN  was  her  husband's  cousin  ; 
and  besides,  he  had  stood  godfather  to  the  little 
Claude.  He  was  the  elder  by  eight  years  ;  but  Hillier 
always  treated  him  as  if  their  ages  were  reversed,  and 
before  Ella,  used  to  nickname  him  the  "  Anglo-Saxon," 
because  of  his  loose,  physical  largeness,  his  flaxen  hair 
and  beard,  his  strong  simplicity  of  nature.  And  Swann, 
with  a  reticent  good-humour,  acquiesced  in  Hillier' s 
tone  towards  him  ;  out  of  vague  regard  for  his  cousin's 
ability  ;  out  of  respect  for  him  as  Ella's  husband. 

Swann  and  Ella  were  near  friends.  Since  their  first 
meeting,  the  combination  of  his  blunt  self-possession, 
and  his  uncouth  timidity  with  women,  had  attracted 
her.  Divining  his  simplicity,  she  had  felt  at  once  at 
her  ease  with  him,  and,  treating  him  with  open,  cous- 
inly friendliness,  had  encouraged  him  to  come  often  to 
the  house. 

A  while  later,  a  trivial  incident  confirmed  her  regard 
for  him.  They  had  been  one  evening  to  the  theatre 
together — she  and  Hillier  and  Swann, — and  afterwards, 
since  it  was  raining,  she  and  Hillier  waited  under  the 
doorway,  while  he  sallied  out  into  the  Strand  to  find 

77 


78  Sentimental  Studies 

them  a  cab.  Pushing  his  way  along  the  crowded 
street,  his  eyes  scanning  the  traffic  for  an  empty  han- 
som, he  accidentally  collided  with  a  woman  of  the 
pavement,  jostling  her  off  the  kerb  into  the  mud  of  the 
gutter.  Ella  watched  him  stop,  gaze  ruefully  at  the 
woman's  splashed  skirt,  take  off  his  hat,  and  apologise 
with  profuse,  impulsive  regret.  The  woman,  continued 
her  walk,  and  presently  passed  the  theatre  door.  She 
looked  middle-aged  :  her  face  was  hard  and  animal- 
like. 

One  Sunday  afternoon — it  was  summer-time — as  she 
was  crossing  the  Park  to  pay  a  call  in  Gloucester 
Square,  she  came  across  him  sauntering  alone  in  Ken- 
sington Gardens.  She  stopped  and  spoke  to  him  ;  he 
seemed  much  startled  to  meet  her.  Three-quarters  of 
an  hour  later,  when  she  returned,  he  was  sitting  on  a 
public  bench  beside  her  path  ;  and  immediately,  from 
his  mannner,  she  half  guessed  that  he  had  been  wait- 
ing for  her.  It  was  a  fortnight  after  Claude's  christen- 
ing :  he  started  to  speak  to  her  of-  the  child,  and  so, 
talking  together  gravely,  they  turned  on  to  the  turf, 
mounted  the  slope,  and  sat  down  on  two  chairs  beneath 
the  trees. 

Touched  by  his  waiting  for  her,  she  was  anxious  to 
make  friends  with  him  :  because  he  was  the  baby's 
godfather  ;  because  he  seemed  alone  in  the  world  ; 
because  she  trusted  in  his  goodness.  So  she  led  him, 
directly  and  indirectly,  to  talk  of  himself.  At  first,  in 


A  Commonplace  Chapter  79 

moody  embarrassment,  he  prodded  the  turf  with  his 
stick  ;  and  presently  responded,  unwillingly  breaking 
down  his  troubled  reserve,  and  alluding  to  his  loneli- 
ness confidingly,  as  if  sure  of  her  sympathy. 

Unconsciously  he  made  her  feel  privileged  to  thus 
obtain  an  insight  into  the  inner  workings  of  his  heart, 
and  gave  her  a  womanly,  sentimental  interest  in  him. 

Comely  cloud-billows  were  overhead,  and  there  was 
not  a  breath  of  breeze. 

They  paused  in  their  talk,  and  he  spoke  to  her  of 
Kensington  Gardens,  lovingly,  as  of  a  spot  which  had 
signified  much  to  him  in  the  past — Kensington  Gar- 
dens, massively  decorous  ;  ceremoniously  quiet ;  pom- 
pous, courtly  as  a  king's  leisure-park  ;  the  slow 
opulent  contours  of  portly  foliage,  sober-green,  immo- 
bile and  indolent ;  spacious  groupings  of  tree-trunks  ; 
a  low  ceiling  of  leaves  ;  broad  shadows  mottling  the 
grass.  The  lyOtig  Water,  smooth  and  dark  as  a  mirror  ; 
lining  its  banks,  the  rhododendrons  swelling  with 
colour — cream,  purple,  and  carmine.  The  peacock's 
insolent  scream ;  a  silently  skimming  pigeon  ;  the 
joyous  twitterings  of  birds  ;  the  patient  bleating  of 
sheep.  .  .  . 

At  last  she  rose  to  go.  He  accompanied  her  as  far 
as  the  Albert  Memorial,  and  when  he  had  left  her,  she 
realised,  with  a  thrill  of  contentment,  that  he  and  she 
had  become  friends. 


IV. 


THAT  had  been  the  beginning  of  George  Swann's 
great  love  for  her.  His  was  a  slowly  moving 
nature  :  it  was  gradually  therefore  that  he  came  to 
value,  as  a  matter  of  almost  sacred  concern,  the  sense 
of  her  friendship  ;  reverencing  her  with  the  single- 
hearted,  unquestioning  reverence  of  a  man  unfamiliar 
with  women  ;  regarding  altogether  gravely  her  rela- 
tions with  him — their  talks  on  serious  subjects,  the 
little  letters  she  wrote  to  him,  the  books  that  he  had 
given  her — Swinburne's  Century  of  Roundels  ;  a  tiny  edi- 
tion of  Shelley,  bound  in  white  parchment  ;  Mrs.  Mey- 
nell's  Rhythm  of  Life.  He  took  to  studying  her 
intellectual  tastes,  the  topics  that  were  congenial  toher, 
her  opinions  on  men  and  women,  with  a  quiet,  plod- 
ding earnestness  ;  almost  as  if  it  were  his  duty.  Thus 
he  learned  her  love  of  simple  country  things  ;  gained  a 
conception  of  her  girlhood's  home  ;  of  her  father  and 
mother,  staid  country-folk.  He  did  not  know  how  to 
him  alone  she  could  talk  of  these  things  ;  or  of  the 
warm,  deep-seated  gratitude  she  bore  him  in  conse- 
quence ;  but  he  reverted  constantly  to  the  topic,  be- 
cause under  its  influence,  she  always  brightened,  and 

80 


A  Commonplace  Chapter  81 

it  seemed  to  ratify  the  bond  of  sympathy  between 
them. 

How  much,  as  the  months'  went  by,  she  came  to 
mean  to  him,  he  had  not  in  the  least  realised  ;  he  had 
never  thought  of  her  as  playing  a  part  in  his  own  life  ; 
only  as  a  beautiful-natured  woman,  to  whom  he  owed 
everything,  because,  by  some  strange  chance,  she  had 
made  him  her  friend. 

Not  even  in  his  moments  of  idle,  vagrant  reverie,  did 
he  think  to  ask  more  of  her  than  this  ;  to  intrude  him- 
self further  into  her  life,  to  offer  her  more  than  exactly 
that  which  she  was  expecting  of  him,  naturally  never 
occurred  to  him.  Yet,  in  a  queer,  uncomfortable  way, 
he  was  jealous  of  other  men's  familiarity  with  her — 
vaguely  jealous  lest  they  should  supplant  him,  mis- 
trustful of  his  own  modesty.  And  there  was  no  service 
which,  if  she  had  asked  it  of  him,  he  would  not  have 
accomplished  for  her  sake  ;  for  he  had  no  ties. 

But  towards  Hillier,  since  he  belonged  to  her, 
Swann's  heart  warmed  affectionately  ;  she  had  loved 
and  married  him  ;  had  made  him  master  of  her  life. 
So  he  instinctively  extended  to  his  cousin  a  portion  of 
the  unspoken  devotion  inspired  by  Ella.  Such  was  the 
extent  of  his  reverence  for  her,  and  his  diffidence  re- 
garding himself,  that  he  took  for  granted  that  Hillier 
was  an  ideal  husband,  tender,  impelled  by  her  to  no 
ordinary  daily  devotion  :  for,  that  it  should  be  other- 
wise, would  have  seemed  to  him  a  monstrous  improba- 


82  Sentimental   Studies 


bility.  Yet  latterly,  since  the  coming  of  Hillier's 
success,  certain  incidents  had  disconcerted  him,  filled 
him  with  ill-defined  uneasiness. 

From  the  first,  he  had  been  one  of  Hillier's  warmest 
admirers ;  praising,  whenever  an  opportunity  offered, 
out  of  sheer  loyalty  to  Ella,  and  pride  in  his  cousin, 
the  fineness  of  form  that  his  poetry  revealed.  To  her, 
when  they  were  alone,  he  had  talked  in  the  same  en- 
thusiastic strain  ;  the  first  time  she  had  seemed  listless 
and  tired,  and  afterwards  he  had  blamed  himself  for 
his  want  of  tact  ;  on  another  occasion,  he  had  brought 
her  a  laudatory  article,  and  she  had  turned  the  conver- 
sation brusquely  into  another  channel.  And,  since  his 
love  for  her — of  which  as  yet  he  was  himself  uncon- 
scious— caused  him  to  brood  over  means  of  pleasing 
her  (he  lived  alone  in  the  Temple),  this  indication  that 
he  had  jarred  her  sensibilities  was  not  lost  upon  him. 

Hillier's  attitude  towards  the  little  Claude,  and  the 
pain  that  it  was  causing  her,  would  in  all  probability 
have  escaped  him,  had  she  not  alluded  to  it  once 
openly,  frankly  assuming  that  he  had  perceived  it. 
It  was  not  indeed  that  she  was  in  any  way  tempted  to 
indulge  in  the  transitional  treachery  of  discussing  Hil- 
lier  with  him  ;  but  that,  distressed,  yearning  for  coun- 
sel, she  was  prompted  almost  irresistibly  to  turn  to 
Swann,  who  had  stood  godfather  to  the  child,  who  was 
ready  to  join  her  in  forming  anxious  speculations  con- 
cerning the  future. 


A  Commonplace  Chapter  83 

For  of  course  he  had  extended  his  devotion  to  the 
child  also,  who,  at  Hillier's  suggestion,  was  taught  to 
call  him  Uncle  George.  Naturally  his  heart  went  out 
to  children  :  the  little  Claude,  since  the  first  awaken- 
ing of  his  intelligence,  had  exhibited  a  freakish,  child- 
ish liking  for  him  ;  and,  in  his  presence,  always 
assumed  something  of  the  winsorneness  of  other  chil- 
dren. 

The  child's  preference  for  Swann,  his  shy  mistrust 
of  his  father,  were  sometimes  awkwardly  apparent ; 
but  Hillier,  so  it  seemed  to  Ella,  so  far  from  resenting, 
readily  accepted  his  cousin's  predominance.  "  Chil- 
dren always  instinctively  know  a  good  man,"  he  would 
say,  laughing  ;  and  Ella  would  wince  inwardly,  dis- 
cerning, beneath  his  air  of  complacent  humility,  how 
far  apart  from  her  he  had  come  to  stand. 

Thus,  insensibly,  Swann  had  become  necessary  to 
her,  almost  the  pivot,  as  it  were,  of  her  life  :  to  muse 
concerning  the  nature  of  his  feeling  towards  her,  to 
probe  its  sentimental  aspects,  to  accept  his  friendship 
otherwise  than  with  unconscious  ease,  that  was  not 
her  way. 

But  Hillier  noted  critically  how  things  were  drift- 
ing, and  even  lent  encouragement  to  their  progress  in 
a  way  that  was  entirely  unostentatious  ;  since  so  cyni- 
cal an  attitude  seemed  in  some  measure  to  justify  his 
own  conduct. 


V. 


FOR  he  was  unfaithful  to  his  wife.  It  was  inevit- 
able that  the  temptation,  in  the  guise  of  a  craving 
for  change,  should  come — not  from  the  outside,  but  from 
within  himself.  And  he  had  had  no  habit  of  stable 
purpose  with  which  to  withstand  it.  Not  altogether 
was  it  a  vagrant,  generalised  lusting  after  women  other 
than  his  wife  ;  not  a  mere  harking  back  to  the  cruder 
experiences  of  his  bachelorhood  ;  though,  at  first,  it 
had  seemed  so  to  manifest  itself.  Rather  was  it  the 
result  of  a  moody  restlessness,  of  a  dissatisfaction  (with 
her,  consciously,  no ;  for  the  more  that  he  sinned 
against  her,  the  more  lovable,  precious  her  figure  ap- 
peared to  him)  kindled  by  continual  contact  with  her 
natural  goodness.  It  was  as  if,  in  his  effort  to  match 
his  personality  with  hers,  he  had  put  too  severe  a  strain 
upon  the  better  part  of  him. 

He  himself  had  never  analysed  the  matter  more 
exhaustively  than  this.  The  treacherous  longing  had 
gripped  him  at  certain  moments,  holding  him  helpless 
as  in  a  vice.  He  had  conceived  no  reckless  passion  for 
another  woman  ;  such  an  eventuality,  he  dimly  sur- 
mised, was  well-nigh  improbable.  In  his  case  brain 

84 


A  Commonplace  Chapter  85 

domineered  over  heart ;  to  meet  the  first  outbursting 
of  his  adoration  for  his  wife,  he  had  drained  every  re- 
source of  his  sentimentality. 

Was  it  then  an  idle  craving  for  adventure,  a  school- 
boy curiosity  clamouring  for  fresh  insight  into  the 
heart  of  women  ?  Mere  experience  was  unnecessary 
for  the  attainment  of  comprehension  ;  "  to  have  lived  " 
did  not  imply  ' '  to  have  understood  ' '  ;  the  most  preg- 
nant adventures,  as  he  knew,  were  those  which  entailed 
no  actual  unfaithfulness. 

And  for  these — subtle,  psychological  intimacies — 
ample  occasion  offered.  Yet  the  twist  in  his  nature  led 
him  to  profess  to  treat  them  heedlessly  ;  and,  in  reality, 
to  prosecute  them  with  no  genuine  strenuousness. 
They  would  have  been  obvious  lapses  ;  Ella  would 
have  been  pained,  pitied  perhaps  ;  from  that  his  vanity 
and  his  sham  chivalry  'alike  shrank. 

His  unfaithfulness  to  her,  then,  had  been  prompted 
by  no  evident  motive.  Superficially  considered,  it 
seemed  altogether  gratuitous,  meaningless.  The  world 
— that  is,  people  who  knew  him  and  her — would  prob- 
ably have  discredited  the  story,  had  it  come  to  be 
bruited.  And  this  fact  he  had  not  omitted  to  consider. 

She,  the  other  woman,  was  of  little  importance. 
She  belonged  to  the  higher  walks  of  the  demi-monde  : 
she  was  young ;  beautiful  too,  in  a  manner  ;  light- 
hearted  ;  altogether  complaisant.  She  was  not  the 
first  ;  there  had  been  others  before  her  ;  but  these  were 


86  Sentimental  Studies 


of  no  account  whatsoever :  they  had  but  represented 
the  bald  fact  of  his  unfaithfulness.  But  she  attracted 
him  ;  he  returned  to  her  again  and  again  ;  though 
afterwards,  at  any  rate  in  the  beginning,  he  was  wont 
to  spare  himself  little  in  the  matter  of  self-reproach, 
and  even  to  make  some  show  of  resisting  the  temptation. 
The  discretion  of  her  cynical  camaraderie,  however, 
was  to  be  trusted ;  and  that  was  sufficient  to  under- 
mine all  virtuous  resolution.  She  had  the  knack,  too, 
of  cheering  him  when  depressed,  and,  curiously  enough, 
of  momentarily  reinstating  him  in  his  own  conceit, 
though,  later,  on  his  return  to  Ella,  he  would  suffer 
most  of  the  pangs  of  remorse. 

There  was  something  mannish  about  her — not  about 
her  physiognomy,  but  about  her  mind, — derived,  no 
doubt,  from  the  scantiness  of  her  intercourse  with 
women.  Her  cynicism  was  both  human  and  humorous  ; 
she  was  a  person  of  little  education,  and  betrayed  none 
of  the  conventionality  of  her  class  ;  hence  her  point  of 
view  often  struck  him  as  oddly  direct  and  unexpected. 
He  used  to  talk  to  her  about  himself,  candidly  discuss- 
ing all  manner  of  random  and  intimate  matters  before 
her,  without  shyness  on  his  part,  without  surprise  on 
hers — almost  at  times  as  if  she  were  not  present, — and 
with  an  assumption  of  facile  banter,  to  listen  to  which 
tickled  his  vanity.  Only  to  Ella  did  he  never  allude  ; 
and  in  this,  of  course,  she  tacitly  acquiesced.  She  pos- 
sessed a  certain  quality  of  sympathetic  tact  :  always 


A  Commonplace  Chapter  87 

attentive  to  his  talk,  never  critical  of  it ;  mindful  of  all 
that  he  had  previously  recounted.  He  could  always 
resume  his  attitude  at  the  very  point  where  he  had 
abandoned  it.  Between  them  there  was  never  any 
aping  of  sentimentality. 

That  she  comprehended  him — with  so  fatuous  a  de- 
lusion he  never  coquetted  ;  nor  that  she  interested  him 
as  a  curious  type.  She  saw  no  subtle  significance  in 
his  talk ;  she  understood  nothing  of  its  complex 
promptings  ;  she  was  ordinary,  uneducated,  and  yet 
stimulating — that  was  the  contrast  which  attracted  him 
towards  her.  Concerning  the  course  of  her  own  ex- 
istence he  did  not  trouble  himself ;  he  accepted  her  as 
he  found  her  ;  deriving  a  sense  of  security  from  the 
fact  that  towards  him  her  manner  varied  but  little  from 
visit  to  visit.  But,  as  these  accumulated,  becoming 
more  and  more  regular,  and  his  faith  in  her  discretion 
blunted  the  edge  of  his  remorse,  he  came  to  notice  how 
she  braced  him,  reconciled  him  to  his  treachery 
(which,  he  argued,  in  any  case  was  inevitable),  lent  to 
it  almost  a  spice  of  pleasantness.  Neither  had  he 
misgivings  of  the  future,  of  how  it  would  end.  One 
day  she  would  pass  out  of  his  life  as  easily  as  she  had 
come  into  it.  His  relations  with  her  were  odd,  though 
not  in  the  obvious  way.  About  the  whole  thing  he 
was  insensibly  coming  to  feel  composed. 

And  its  smoothness,  its  lack  of  a  disquieting  aspect, 
impelled  him  to  persevere  towards  Ella  in  cheerfulness, 


Sentimental  Studies 


courteous  kindness,  and  a  show  of  continuous  affec- 
tion ;  and  to  repent  altogether  of  those  lapses  into 
roughness  which  had  marred  the  first  months  of  their 
marriage. 


VI. 


THE  hansoms  whirled  their  yellow,  gleaming  eyes 
down  West ;  hot,  flapping  gusts  went  and  re- 
turned aimlessly  ;  and  the  mirthless  twitterings  of  the 
women  fell  abruptly  on  the  sluggishly  shuffling  crowd. 
All  the  sin  of  the  city  seemed  crushed  to  listlessness  ; 
vacantly  wistful,  the  figures  waited  by  the  street 
corners. 

Then  the  storm  burst.  Slow,  ponderous  drops  ;  a 
clap  of  the  thunder's  wrath  ;  a  crinkled  rim  of  light, 
unveiling  a  slab  of  sky,  throbbing,  sullen  and  violent  ; 
small,  giggling  screams  of  alarm,  and  a  stampede  of 
bunchy  silhouettes.  The  thunder  clapped  again,  im- 
patient and  imperious  ;  and  the  rain  responded,  zeal- 
ously hissing.  Bright  stains  of  liquid  gold  straggled 
across  the  roadway  ;  a  sound  of  splashing  accompanied 
the  thud  of  hoofs,  the  rumbling  of  wheels,  the  clanking 
of  chains,  and  the  ceaseless  rattle  of  the  drops  on  the 
hurried  procession  of  umbrellas. 

Swann,  from  the  corner  of  a  crowded  omnibus, 
peered  absently  through  the  doorway,  while  the  con- 
ductor, leaning  into  the  street,  touted  mechanically 

for  passengers. 

89 


90  Sentimental  Studies 


The  vehicle  stopped.  A  woman,  bare-headed  and 
cloaked,  escorted  by  the  umbrella  of  a  restaurant 
official,  hurried  to  the  shelter  of  a  cab,  across  the  wet 
pavement.  A  man  broke  the  stream  of  the  hastening 
crowd  ;  halted  beside  the  wheel  to  stare.  The  woman 
laughed  in  recognition,  noisily.  The  man  stepped 
rapidly  on  to  the  foot-board,  and  an  instant  stood  there, 
directing  the  driver  across  the  roof.  The  light  from  a 
lamp-post  caught  his  face  :  it  was  Hillier.  The  next 
moment  he  was  seated  beside  the  woman,  who  was  still 
laughing  (Swann  could  see  the  gleaming  whiteness  of 
her  teeth);  the  driver  had  loosened  the  window  strap, 
the  glass  had  slid  down,  shutting  them  in.  The  omni- 
bus jolted  forward,  and  the  cab  followed  in  its  wake, 
impatiently,  for  the  street  was  blocked  with  traffic. 

Immediately,  with  a  fierce  vividness,  Ella's  image 
sprang  up  before  Swann' s  eyes — her  face  with  all  its 
pure,  natural,  simple  sweetness.  And  there — not  ten 
yards  distant,  behind  the  obscurity  of  that  blurred 
glass,  Hillier  sitting  with  another  woman — a  woman 
concerning  whose  status  he  could  not  doubt. 

He  clenched  his  gloved  fists.  The  wild  impulse 
spurted  forth,  the  impulse  to  drag  the  cur  from  the 
cab,  to  bespatter  him,  to  throw  him  into  the  mud,  to 
handle  him  brutally,  as  he  deserved.  It  was  as  though 
Hillier  had  struck  him  a  cowardly  blow  in  the  face. 

Then  the  hansom  started  to  creep  past  the  omnibus. 
Swann  sprang  into  the  roadway.  A  moment  later  he 


A  Commonplace  Chapter  91 

was  inside  another  cab,  whirling  in  pursuit  down 
Piccadilly  hill. 

The  horse's  hoofs  splashed  with  a  rhythmical,  accel- 
erated precision  ;  he  noticed  dully  how  the  crupper- 
strap  flapped  from  side  to  side,  across  the  animal's 
back.  Ahead,  up  the  incline,  pairs  of  tiny  specks,  red 
and  green  were  flitting. 

"  It's  the  cab  with  the  lady  what  come  out  of  the 
restaurant,  ain't  it,  sir?  " 

"Yes,"  Swann  called  back  through  the  trap. 

The  reins  tightened  ;  the  horse  quickened  his  trot. 

Hyde  Park  Corner  stood  empty  and  resplendent 
with  a  glitter  of  glamorous  gold.  The  cab  turned  the 
corner  of  Hamilton  Place,  and  the  driver  lashed  the 
horse  into  a  canter  up  Park  Lane. 

"  That 's  'im— jest  in  front— 

"  All  right.  Follow,"  Swann  heard  himself  answer- 
ing. And,  amid  his  pain,  he  was  conscious  that  the 
man's  jaunty  tone  seemed  to  indicate  that  this  sort  of 
job  was  not  unfamiliar. 

He  struggled  to  tame  the  savageness  of  his  indigna- 
tion ;  to  think  out  the  situation  ;  to  realise  things 
coolly,  that  he  might  do  what  was  best  for  her.  But 
the  leaping  recollection  of  all  her  trustfulness,  her 
goodness,  filled  him  with  a  burning,  maddening  com- 
passion. .  .  .  He  could  see  nothing  but  the  great 
wrong  done  to  her. 

Where   were  they  going — the  green  lights  of  that 


92  Sentimental  Studies 


cab  in  front — that  woman  and  Hillier  ?  .  Where 

would  it  end,  this  horrible  pursuit — this  whirling  cur- 
rent which  was  sweeping  him  forward  ?  ...  It 
was  like  a  nightmare.  .  .  . 

He  must  stop  them — prevent  this  thing  .  .  .  but, 
evidently,  this  was  not  the  first  time.  .  .  .  Hillier 
and  this  woman  knew  one  another.  He  had  stopped 
on  catching  sight  of  her,  and  she  had  recognised 
him.  .  .  .  The  thing  might  have  been  going  on 
for  weeks — for  months.  .  .  . 

Yet  he  must  stop  them — not  here,  in  the  crowded 
street  (they  were  in  the  Kdgware  Road),  but  later, 
when  they  had  reached  their  destination — where  there 
were  no  passers — where  it  could  be  done  without 
scandal.  ... 

Yes,  he  must  send  Hillier  back  to  her.  .  .  . 
And  she  believed  in  him — trusted  him.  .  .  .  She 
must  know  nothing — at  all  costs,  he  must  spare 
her  the  hideous  knowledge — the  pain  of  it.  ... 
And  yet — and  yet  ?  .  .  .  Hillier — the  blackguard 
— she  would  have  to  go  on  living  with  him,  trusting 
him,  confiding  in  him,  loving  him. 

And  for  relief  he  returned  wearily  to  his  indignation. 

How  was  it  possible  for  any  man — married  to  her — 
to  be  so  vile,  so  false  ?  .  .  .  The  consummate  hy- 
pocrisy of  it  all.  .  . 

Swann  remembered  moments  when  Hillier' s  manner 
towards  her  had  appeared  redolent  of  deference,  of 


A  Commonplace  Chapter  93 

suppressed  affection.  And  he — a  man  of  refinement — 
not  a  mere  coarse-fibred,  sensual  brute — he  who  wrote 
poetry — Swann  recalled  a  couplet  full  of  fine  aspiration 
— that  he  should  have  done  this  loathsome  thing — done 
it  callously,  openly — any  one  might  have  seen  it — de- 
ceived her  for  some  common,  vulgar,  public  crea- 
ture. .  .  . 

Suddenly  the  cab  halted  abruptly. 

"They  're  pulled  up,  across  the  street  there,"  the 
driver  whispered  hoarsely,  confidentiall)' ;  and  for  his 
tone  Swann  could  have  struck  him. 

It  was  an  ill-lit  street,  silent  and  empty.  The  houses 
were  low,  semi-detached,  and  separated  from  the  pave- 
ment by  railing  and  small  gardens. 

The  woman  had  got  out  of  the  cab  and  was  pushing 
open  the  swing-gate.  Hillier  stood  on  the  foot-board, 
paying  the  cabman.  Swann,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
street,  hesitated.  Hillier  stepped  on  to  the  pavement, 
and  ran  lightly  up  the  door-step  after  the  woman. 
She  unlocked  the  door  ;  it  closed  behind  them.  And 
the  hansom  which  had  brought  them  turned,  and 
trotted  away  down  the  street. 

Swann  stood  a  moment  before  the  house,  irresolute  ; 
then  re-crossed  the  street  slowly.  And  a  hansom, 
bearing  a  second  couple,  drew  up  at  the  house  next 
door. 


VII. 

\  7OU  can  go  to  bed,  Hodgson.  I  will  turn  off  the 
I  light." 

The  man  retired  silently.  It  was  a  stage-phrase  that 
rose  unconsciously  to  her  lips,  a  stage-situation  with 
which  she  was  momentarily  toying. 

Alone,  she  perceived  its  absurd  unreality.  Nothing, 
of  course,  would  happen  to-night, — though  so  many 
days  and  nights  she  Had  been  waiting.  The  details  of 
life  were  clumsy,  cumbersome  ;  the  simplification  of 
the  stage,  of  novels,  of  dozing  dreams,  seemed,  by 
contrast,  bitterly  impossible. 

She  took  up  the  book  again,  and  read  on,  losing  her- 
self for  a  while  in  the  passion  of  its  pages — a  passion 
that  was  all  glamorous,  sentimental  felicity,  at  once 
vague  and  penetrating.  But,  as  she  paused  to  reach  a 
paper-knife,  she  remembered  the  irrevocable,  prosaic 
groove  of  existence,  and  that  slow  drifting  to  a  dreary 
commonplace — a  commonplace  that  was  hers — brought 
back  all  her  aching  listlessness.  She  let  the  book  slip 
to  the  carpet. 

Love,  she  repeated  to  herself,  a  silken  web,  opal- 
tinted,  veiling  all  life  ;  love,  bringing  fragrance  and 

94 


A  Commonplace  Chapter  95 

radiance  ;  love,  with  the  moonlight  streaming  across 
the  meadows ;  love,  amid  summer-leafed  woods, 
a-sparkle  in  the  morning  sun  ;  a  simple  clasping  of 
hands ;  a  happiness,  child-like  and  thoughtless,  secure 
and  intimate.  .  .  . 

And  she — she  had  nothing — only  the  helpless  child  ; 
her  soul  was  brave  and  dismantled  and  dismal ;  and 
once  again  started  the  gnawing  of  humiliation — in- 
ferior even  to  the  common  people,  who  could  be  loved 
and  forget,  in  the  midst  of  promiscuous  squalor. 
Without  love,  there  seemed  no  reason  for  life. 

Away  her  thoughts  .sailed  to  the  tale  of  the  fairy- 
prince,  stepping  to  shore  in  his  silver  armour,  come  to 
deliver  and  to  love.  She  would  have  been  his  in  all 
humility,  waited  on  him  in  fearful  submission  ;  she 
would  have  asked  for  nought  but  his  love. 

Years  ago,  once  or  twice,  men  had  appeared  to  her 
like  that.  And  Hillier,  before  they  were  married,  when 
they  were  first  engaged.  A  strange  girl  she  must  have 
been  in  those  days  !  And  now, — now  they  were  like 
any  husband  and  any  wife. 

"  It  happened  by  chance,"  the  old  tale  began. 
Chance  !  Yes,  it  was  chance  that  governed  all  life  ; 
mocking,  ironical  chance,  daintily  sportive  chance, 
hobbled  to  the  clumsy  mechanism  of  daily  existence. 

Twelve  o'clock  struck.  Ten  minutes  more  perhaps, 
and  Hillier  would  be  home.  She  could  hear  his  tread ; 
she  could  see  him  enter,  take  off  his  coat  and  gloves 


96  Sentimental  Studies 


gracefully,  then  lift  her  face  lightly  in  his  two  hands, 
and  kiss  her  on  the  forehead.  He  would  ask  for  an 
account  of  her  day's  doings  ;  but  he  would  never  heed 
her  manner  of  answering,  for  he  would  have  begun  to 
talk  of  himself.  And  altogether  complacently  would 
he  take  up  the  well-worn  threads  of  their  common  life. 

And  she  would  go  on  waiting,  and  trifling  with  hope- 
lessness, for  in  real  life  such  things  were  impossible. 
Men  were  dull  and  incomplete,  and  could  not  under- 
stand a  woman's  heart.  .  .  . 

And  so  she  would  wait,  till  he  came  in,  and  when  he 
had  played  his  part,  just  as  she  had  imagined  he  would 
play  it,  she  would  follow  him,  in  dumb  docility,  up- 
stairs to  bed. 

It  was  past  one  o'clock  when  he  appeared.  She  had 
fallen  asleep  in  the  big  arm-chair  ;  her  book  lay  in  a 
heap  on  the  carpet  beside  her.  He  crossed  the  room, 
but  she  did  not  awake. 

One  hand  hung  over  the  arm  of  the  chair,  limp  and 
white  and  fragile  ;  her  head,  bent  over  her  breast,  was 
coyly  resting  in  the  curve  of  her  elbow  ;  her  hair  was 
a  little  dishevelled  ;  her  breathing  was  soft  and  regular, 
like  a  child's. 

He  sat  down  noiselessly,  awed  by  this  vision  of  her. 
The  cat,  which  had  lain  stretched  on  the  hearth-rug, 
sprang  into  his  lap,  purring  and  caressing.  He  thought 
it  strange  that  animals  had  no  sense  of  human  sinful- 


A  Commonplace  Chapter  97 

ness,  and  recalled  the  devotion  of  the  dog  of  a  prosti- 
tute, whom  he  had  known  years  and  years  ago.  .  .  . 
He  watched  her,  and  her  unconsciousness  loosed 
within  him  the  sickening  pangs  of  remorse.  . 
He  mused  vaguely  on  suicide  as  the  only  fitting  termi- 
nation. .  .  .  And  he  descended  to  cheap  anathe- 
mas upon  life. 

By-and-bye  she  awoke,  opening  her  eyes  slowly,  won- 
deringly.  He  was  kneeling  before  her,  kissing  her  hand 
with  reverential  precaution. 

She  saw  tears  in  his  eyes  ;  she  was  still  scarcely 
awake  ;  she  made  no  effort  to  comprehend ;  only  was 
impulsively  grateful,  and  slipping  her  arms  behind  his 
head,  drew  him  towards  her  and  kissed  him  on  the 
eyes.  He  submitted,  and  a  tear  moistened  her  lips. 

Then  they  went  up-stairs. 

And  she,  passionately  clutching  at  every  memory  of  \ 
their  love,  feverishly  cheated  herself  into  bitter  self-'; 
upbraiding,  into  attributing  to  him  a  nobility  of  nature 
that  set  him  above  all  other  men.  And  he,  at  each  re- 
newed outburst  of  her  wild  straining  towards  her  ideal, 
suffered  as  if  she  had  cut  his  bare  flesh  with  a  whip. 

It  was  his  insistent  attitude  of  resentful  humility  that 
finally  wearied  her  of  the  fit  of  false  exaltation.  When 
she  sank  to  sleep,  the  old  ache  was  at  her  heart. 


VIII. 

SWANN  strode  into  the  room.  Hillier  looked  up 
at  him  from  his  writing-table  in  unfeigned  sur- 
prise ;  greeted  him  cordially,  with  a  couple  of  trite, 
cheery  remarks  concerning  the  weather,  then  waited 
abruptly  for  an  explanation  of  this  morning  visit ;  for 
Swann's  trouble  was  written  on  his  face. 

"You  look  worried.  Is  there  anything  wrong? 
Hillier  asked  presently. 

"Yes." 

"Well,  can  I  do  anything?  If  I  can  be  of  any  ser- 
vice to  you,  old  fellow,  you  know  I — 

' '  I  discovered  last  night  what  a  damned  blackguard 
you  are."  He  spoke  savagely,  as  if  his  bluntness  ex- 
ulted him  ;  his  tone  quivered  with  suppressed  passion. 

Hillier,  with  a  quick  movement  of  his  head,  flinched 
as  if  he  had  been  struck  in  the  face.  And  the  lines 
about  his  mouth  were  set  rigidly. 

There  was  a  long,  tense  silence.  Hillier  was  drawing 
circles  on  a  corner  of  the  blotting-pad ;  Swann  was 
standing  over  him,  glaring  at  him  with  a  fierce,  hateful 
curiosity.  Hillier  became  conscious  of  the  other's 
expression,  and  his  fist  clenched  obviously. 


A  Commonplace  Chapter  99 

"  I  saw  you  get  into  a  cab  with  that  woman,"  Swann 
went  on.  "I  was  in  an  omnibus  going  home.  I 
followed  you — drove  after  you.  I  wanted  to  stop  you 
— to  stop  it — I  was  too  late. ' ' 

"Ah  !  "  An  exasperated,  sneering  note  underlined 
the  exclamation.  Hillier  drove  the  pen-point  into  the 
table.  The  nib  curled  and  snapped. 

The  blood  rushed  to  Swann 's  forehead.  In  a  flash 
he  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  thought  that  had  crossed 
Hillier' s  mind.  It  was  like  a  personal  indignity  ;  he 
struggled  desperately  to  control  himself. 

Hillier  looked  straight  into  his  cousin's  distorted  face. 
At  the  sight  the  tightness  about  his  own  mouth  slack- 
ened. His  composure  returned. 

"  I  'm  sorry.     Forgive  me,"  he  said  simply. 

' '  How  can  you  be  such  a  brute  ?  ' '  Swann  burst  out 
unheeding.  "Don't  you  care?  Is  it  nothing  to  you 
to  wreck  your  wife's  whole  happiness — to  spoil  her  life, 
to  break  her  heart,  to  deceive  her  in  the  foulest  way, 
to  lie  to  her?  Have  n't  you  any  conscience,  any 
chivalry  ? ' ' 

The  manly  anguish  in  his  voice  was  not  lost  upon 
Hillier.  He  thought  he  realised  clearly  how  it  was  for 
Ella,  and  not  for  him,  that  Swann  was  so  concerned. 
Once  more  he  took  stock  of  his  cousin's  agitation,  and 
a  quick  glitter  came  into  his  eyes.  He  felt  a  mysterious 
force  had  been  suddenly  given  to  him.  Still  he  said 
nothing. 


166  Sentimental  Studies 


"How  could  you,  Hillier?  How  came  you  to 
doit?" 

"  Sit  down."  He  spoke  coldly,  clearly,  as  if  he  were 
playing  a  part  which  he  knew  well. 

Swann  obeyed  mechanically. 

"  It's  perfectly  natural  that  you  should  speak  to  me 
like  that.  You  take  the  view  of  the  world.  The  view 
of  the  world  I  accept  absolutely.  Certainly  I  am  utterly 
unworthy  of  Ella ' '  (he  mentioned  her  name  with  a 
curious  intonation  of  assertive  pride).  "How  I  have 
sunk  to  this  thing — the  whole  story  of  how  I  have  co'me 
to  risk  my  whole  happiness  for  the  sake  of  another 
woman,  who  is  nothing — absolutely  nothing — to  me, 
to  whom  I  am  nothing,  I  won't  attempt  to  explain. 
Did  I  attempt  to  do  so,  I  see  little  probability  of  your 
understanding  it,  and  little  to  be  gained  even  if  you  did 
so.  I  choose  to  let  it  remain  for  you  a  piece  of  incom- 
prehensible infamy  ;  I  have  no  wish  to  alter  your  view 
of  me." 

"You  don't  care  .  .  .  you've  no  remorse 
.  .  .  you  're  callous  and  cynical.  .  .  .  Good 
God  !  it  's  awful." 

"Yes,  Swann,  I  care,"  Hillier  resumed,  lowering 
his  voice,  and  speaking  with  a  slow  distinctness,  as 
if  he  were  putting  an  excessive  restraint  upon  his  emo- 
tions. "  I  care  more  than  ever  you  or  any  one  will 
ever  know." 

"It's   horrible.  I   don't    know   what    to 


A  Commonplace  Chapter  101 

think.  .  .  .  Don't  you  see  the  awfulness  of  your 
wife's  position  ?  .  .  .  Don't  you  realise  the  hid- 
eousness  of  what  you  have  done  ?  ' ' 

"  My  dear  Swann,  nobody  is  more  alive  to  the  con- 
sequences of  what  I  've  done  than  I  am.  I  have  be- 
haved infamously — I  don't  need  to  be  told  that  by  you. 
And  whatever  comes  to  me  out  of  this  thing"  (he 
spoke  with  a  grave,  resigned  sadness),  "I  shall  bear 
it." 

"  Good  God  !  Can  you  think  of  nothing  but  your- 
self? Can't  you  see  that  you  've  been  a  miserable, 
selfish  beast — that  what  happens  to  you  matters  noth- 
ing? Can't  you  see  that  the  only  thing  that  matters 
is  your  wife?  You  're  a  miserable,  skulking  cur. 
.  .  .  She  trusted  you — she  believed  in  you,  and 
you  've  done  her  an  almost  irreparable  wrong." 

Hillier  stood  suddenly  erect. 

"  What  I  have  done,  Swann,  is  more  than  a  wrong. 
It  is  a  crime.  Within  an  hour  of  your  leaving  this 
room,  I  shall  have  told  Ella  everything.  That  is  the 
only  thing  left  for  me  to  do,  and  I  shall  not  shirk  it. 
I  shall  take  the  full  responsibility.  You  did  right  to 
come  to  me  as  you  did.  You  are  right  to  consider  me 
a  miserable,  skulking  cur  "  (he  brought  the  words  out 
with  an  emphasised  bravery).  "  Now  you  can  do  no 
more.  The  remainder  of  the  matter  rests  between  me 
and  my  wife " 

He  paused. 


IO2  Sentimental  Studies 


"  And  to  think  that  you —  "  Swann  began  passion- 
ately. 

"  There  is  no  object  to  be  gained  by  our  discussing 
the  matter  further,"  Hilliei  interrupted  a  little  loudly, 
but  with  a  concentrated  caiui.  "  There  is  no  need  for 
you  to  remain  here  longer."  He  put  his  thumb  to  the 
electric-bell. 

' '  The  maid  will  be  here  in  a  moment  to  show  you 
out,"  he  added. 

Swann  waited,  blinking  with  hesitation.  His  per- 
sonality seemed  to  be  slipping  from  him. 

"  You  are  going  to  tell  her?  "  he  repeated  slowly. 

The  door  opened  :  he  hurried  out  of  the  room. 

The  outer  door  slammed  ;  Hillier's  face  turned  a 
sickty  white  ;  his  eyes  dilated,  and  he  laughed  excit- 
edly— a  low,  short,  hysterical  laugh.  He  looked  at 
the  clock  ;  the  whole  scene  had  lasted  but  ten  minutes. 
He  pulled  a  chair  to  the  fire,  and  sat  staring  at  the 
flames  moodily.  .  .  .  The  tension  of  the  dramatic 
situation  snapped.  Before  his  new  prospect,  once 
again  he  thought  weakly  of  suicide.  .  . 


IX. 


HE  had  told  her — not,  of  course,  the  whole  story — 
from  that  his  sensitivity  had  shrunk.  Still,  he 
had  besmirched  himself  bravely  ;  he  had  gone  through 
with  the  interview  not  without  dignity.  Beforehand 
he  had  nerved  himself  for  a  terrible  ordeal ;  yet,  some- 
how, as  he  reviewed  it,  now  that  it  was  all  over,  the  scene 
seemed  to  have  fallen  flat.  The  tragedy  of  her  grief, 
of  his  own  passionate  repentance,  which  he  had  been 
expecting,  had  proved  unaccountably  tame.  She  had 
cried,  and  at  the  sight  of  those  tears  of  hers  he  had 
suffered  intensely ;  but  she  had  displayed  no  sup- 
pressed, womanly  jealousy ;  had  not,  in  her  despair, 
appeared  to  regard  his  confession  as  an  overwhelming 
shattering  of  her  faith  in  him,  and  so  provoked  him  to 
reveal  the  depth  of  his  anguish.  He  had  implored  her 
forgiveness  ;  he  had  vowed  he  would  efface  the  mem- 
ory of  his  treachery  ;  she  had  acquiesced  dreamily,  with 
apparent  heroism.  There  had  been  no  mention  of  a 
separation. 

And  now  the  whole  thing  was  ended  :  to-night  he 
and  she  were  dining  out. 

He  was  vaguely  uncomfortable  ;  yet  his  heart  was 
103 


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full  of  sincere  repentance,  because  of  the  loosening  of 
the  strain  of  his  anxiety  ;  because  of  the  smarting 
sense  of  humiliation  when  he  recollected  Swann's 
words  ;  because  he  had  caused  her  to  suffer  in  a  queer, 
inarticulate  way,  which  he  did  not  altogether  under- 
stand, of  which  he  was  vaguely  afraid.  .  .  . 


X. 


WHEN  at  last  he  had  left  her  alone,  it  was  with 
a  curious  calmness  that  she  started  to  reflect 
upon  it  all.  She  supposed  it  was  very  strange  that  his 
confession  had  not  wholly  prostrated  her  ;  and  glan- 
cing furtively  backwards,  catching  a  glimpse  of  her  old 
girlish  self,  wondered  listlessly  how  it  was  that, 
insensibly,  all  these  months,  she  had  grown  so  hard- 
ened. 

By-and-bye,  the  recent  revelation  of  his  unfaithful- 
ness seemed  to  recede  slowly  into  the  misty  past,  and 
fading,  losing  its  sharpness  of  outline,  its  distinctness 
of  detail,  to  resemble  an  irreparable  fact  to  which  fa- 
miliarity had  inured  her. 

And  all  the  uneasiness  of  her  mistrustfulness,  the  pain 
of  her  fluctuating  doublings  ceased  ;  her  comprehension 
of  him  was  all  at  once  clarified,  rendered  vivid  and  in- 
disputable ;  and  she  was  conscious  of  a  certain  sense  of 
relief.  She  was  eased  of  those  feverish,  spasmodic 
gaspings  of  her  half-starved  love  ;  at  first  the  dulness 
of  sentimenal  atrophy  seemed  the  more  endurable. 
She  jibed  at  her  natural  artlessness  ;  and  insisted  to 

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herself  that  she  wanted  no  fool's  paradise,  that  she  was 
even  glad  to  see  him  as  he  really  was,  to  terminate, 
once  for  all,  this  futile  folly  of  love  ;  that,  after  all,  his 
unfaithfulness  was  no  unusual  and  terrible  tragedy, 
but  merely  a  commonplace  chapter  in  the  lives  of  smil- 
ing, chattering  women,  whom  she  met  at  dinners,  even- 
ing parties,  and  balls. 

There  were  some  who  simpered  to  her  over  Hillier 
as  a  model  of  modern  husbands  ;  and  she  must  go  on 
listening  and  smiling.  .  .  . 

And  the  long  years  ahead  would  unroll  themselves 
— a  slow  tale  of  decorous  lovelessness.  .  .  . 

He  would  be  alwa)^s  the  same — that  was  the  hardest 
to  face.  His  nature  could  never  alter,  grow  into  some- 
thing different  .  .  .  never,  never  change  .  .  . 
always,  always  the  same. 

Oh  !  it  made  her  dread  it  all — the  restless  round  of 
social  enjoyments  ;  the  greedy  exposure  of  the  petty 
weaknesses  of  common  acquaintance  ;  the  ill-natured 
atmosphere  that  she  felt  emanating  from  people  herded 
together.  .  .  .  All  the  details  of  her  London  life 
looked  unreal,  mean,  pitiful.  .  . 

And  she  longed  after  the  old  days  of  her  girlhood,  of 
the  smooth,  staid  country  life ;  she  longed  after  the 
simple,  restful  companionship  of  her  old  father  and 
mother  ;  after  the  accumulation  of  little  incidents  that 
she  had  loved  long  ago.  .  .  .  She  longed  too — 


A  Commonplace  Chapter  107 

and  the  straining  at  heart-strings  grew  tenser — she 
longed  after  her  own  lost  maidenhood  ;  she  longed  to 
be  ignorant  and  careless ;  to  see  life  once  again  as  a 
simple,  easy  matter  ;  to  know  nothing  of  evil  ;  to 
understand  nothing  of  men  ;  to  trust — to  trust  un- 
questioningly.  .  .  .  All  that  was  gone  ;  she  her- 
self was  all  changed  ;  those  days  could  never  come 
again. 

And  she  cried  to  herself  a  little,  from  weakness  of 
spirit,  softly. 

Then,  gradually,  out  of  the  weary  turmoil  of  her  bit- 
terness, there  came  to  her  a  warm  impulse  of  vague 
sympathy  for  the  countless,  unknown  tragedies  at 
work  around  her  :  she  thought  of  the  sufferings  of 
outcast  women — of  loveless  lives,  full  of  mirthless 
laughter  ;  she  thought  of  the  long  loneliness  of  child- 
less women.  .  . 

She  clutched  for  consolation  at  the  unhappiness  of 
others  ;  but  she  only  discovered  the  greater  ugliness  of 
the  world.  And  she  returned  to  a  tired  contemplation 
of  her  own  prospect. 

He  had  broken  his  vows  to  her — not  only  the  solemn 
vow  he  had  taken  in  the  church  (she  recalled  how  his 
voice  had  trembled  with  emotion,  as  he  had  repeated 
the  words),  but  all  that  passionate  series  of  vows 


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he  had  made  to  her  during   the  spring-time   of  their 
love.     .     .     . 

Yes,  that  seemed  the  worst  part  of  it — that,  and  not 
the  making  love  to  another  woman.  .  .  .  What 
was  she  like  ?  .  .  .  What  was  it  in  her  that  had 
attracted  him  ?  .  .  .  Oh  !  but  what  did  that  matter  ? 
.  .  — only  why  were  men's  natures  so  different 
from  women's?  . 

Now,  she  must  go  on — go  on  alone.  Since  her  mar- 
riage she  had  lost  the  habit  of  daily  converse  with 
Christ ;  here  in  London,  somehow,  He  had  seemed  so 
distant,  so  difficult  of  approach.  .  .  .' 

She  must  just  go  on.  .  .  .  She  had  the  little 
Claude.  ...  It  was  to  help  her  that  God  had 
given  her  Claude.  .  .  .  Oh  !  she  would  pray  to 
God  to  make  him  good — to  give  him  a  straight,  strong, 
upright,  honest  nature.  And  herself,  every  day,  she 
would  watch  over  his  growth,  guide  him,  teach  him 
.  .  .  Yes,  he  must  grow  up  good  .  .  .  into 
boyhood  .  .  .  different  from  other  boys  .  .  . 
into  manhood,  simple,  honourable  manhood. 
She  would  be  everything  to  him  ;  he  and  she  would 
come  to  comprehend  each  other,  to  read  into  each 
other's  hearts.  .  .  .  Perhaps,  between  them,  would 
spring  up  perfect  love  and  trust.  .  .  . 


XI. 


SWANN  had  written  to  her  : 
"  You  are  in  trouble  :  let  me  come." 

Gradually,  between  the  lines  of  the  note,  she  under- 
derstood  it  all — she  read  how  his  love  for  her  had  leapt 
up,  now  that  he  knew  that  she  was  unhappy  ;  how  he 
wanted  to  be  near  her,  to  comfort  her,  and  perhaps 
.  .  .  perhaps.  .  .  . 

She  was  filled  with  great  sorrow  for  him — and  warm 
gratitude,  too,  for  his  simple,  single-hearted  love — but 
sorrow,  that  she  could  give  him  nothing  in  return,  and 
because  it  seemed  that,  somehow,  he  and  she  were  about 
to  bid  one  another  good-bye  ;  she  thought  she  dimly 
foresaw  how  their  friendship  was  doomed  to 
dwindle.  .  .  . 

So  she  let  him  come. 

And  all  this  she  fancied  she  read  again  in  the  long, 
grave  glance  of  his  greeting,  and  the  firm  clasp  of  his 
big  hand. 

When  he  spoke,  his  deep,  steady  voice  dominated 
her  ;  she  knew  at  once  that  he  would  do  what  was 
right. 

109 


HO  Sentimental  Studies 


"  Ella,  my  poor  Ella,  how  brave  you  are  !  "  She 
looked  up  at  him,  smiling  tremulously,  through  her 
quick-starting  tears.  .  .  .  The  next  moment  it  was 
as  if  the  words"  had  escaped  him — almost  as  if  he  re- 
gretted them. 

He  sat  down  opposite  her,  and,  lightening  his  voice, 
asked — just  as  he  always  did — for  news  of  the  little 
Claude. 

And  so  their  talk  ran  on. 

After  awhile,  she  came  to  realise  that  he  meant  to 
say  no  more  ;  the  strength  of  his  great  reserve  became 
apparent,  and  a  sense  of  peace  stole  over  her.  He 
talked  on,  and  to  the  restful  sound  of  his  clear,  strong 
voice,  she  abandoned  herself  dreamily.  .  .  .  This 
he  had  judged  the  better  course  .  .  .  that  he 
should  have  adopted  any  other  now  seemed  inconceiv- 
able. Beside  him  she  felt  weak  and  helpless  ;  she  re- 
membered the  loneliness  of  his  life  ;  he  seemed  to  her 
altogether  noble  ;  and  she  was  vaguely  remorseful  that 
she  had  not  perceived  from  the  first  that  it  was  from 
him  that  her  help  would  come.  .  .  . 

She  divined,  too,  the  fineness  of  his  sacrifice — that 
manly,  human  struggle  with  himself,  through  which 
he  had  passed  to  attain  it — how  he  had  longed  for  the 
right  to  make  her  his  .  .  .  and  how  he  had  re- 
nounced. The  sureness  of  his  victory,  and  the  hidden 
depths  of  his  nature  which  it  revealed,  awed  her  .  .  . 
now  he  would  never  swerve  from  what  he  knew  to  be 


A  Commonplace  Chapter  1 1 1 

right.  .  .  .  And  on,  through  those  years  to  come, 
she  could  trust  him,  always,  always.  .  .  . 

At  last  he  bid  her  good-bye  :  even  at  the  last  his 
tone  remained  unchanged. 

It  was  close  upon  seven  o'clock.  She  went  up-stairs 
to  dress  for  dinner,  and  kneeling  beside  the  bed,  prayed 
to  God  with  an  outburst  of  passionate,  pulsing 
joy.  .  .  . 

Ten  minutes  later  Hillier  came  in  from  his  dressing- 
room.  He  clasped  his  hands  round  her  bare  neck, 
kissing  her  hair  again  and  again. 

"I  have  been  punished,  Nellie,"  he  began  in  a 
broken  whisper.  ' '  Good  God  !  it  is  hard  to  bear.  .  .  . 
Help  me,  Nellie  ....  help  me  to  bear  it." 

She  unclasped  his  fingers,  and  started  to  stroke  them  ; 
a  little  mechanically,  as  if  it  were  her  duty  to  ease  him 
of  his  pain.  .  .  . 


BATTLEDORE  AND  SHUTTLECOCK. 


I. 

'  \  7OU  may  smoke,  you  know,  Ron,  if  you  like. 
I  'm  afraid  I  have  n't  any  cigarettes,  though." 

"  All  right.     I  've  got  some  here." 

He  dipped  a  spill  into  the  grate,  and  stretching  him- 
self on  the  hearth-rug  in  front  of  her,  steadied  the 
flame.  Helen  fell  to  musing  on  the  gracefulness  of  the 
attitude  he  unconsciously  adopted,  the  natural  nobility 
that,  despite  their  boyish  indecision,  his  features 
suggested. 

"Make  haste,  or  you'll  burn  your  fingers,"  she 
exclaimed. 

He  puffed  vigorously,  for  the  paper  was  almost  con- 
sumed ;  then  gazed  up  at  her  in  frank  scrutiny. 

"Well,  what  are  you  thinking  about — me?"  She 
smiled  ;  her  voice  was  soft  and  leisurely. 

Blinking  with  surprise,  he  dropped  his  cigarette  into 
the  fender,  and  sat  up,  clasping  his  hands  round  his 
knees. 

' '  How  on  earth  did  you  know  that  ? ' ' 


Battledore  and  Shuttlecock  1 1 


"  It  was  n't  so  very  difficult  to  guess.  Now  tell  me  ; 
I  'm  very  curious  to  know." 

"  I  was  thinking  how  glad  I  am  I  've  come  to  live 
here,"  he  said  simply. 

' '  You  dear  boy  !  "  She  was  flushing  with  quick 
pleasure. 

"You  see,  Helen,"  he  continued  seriously,  "I 
should  have  been  beastly  dull  all  alone,  and  you  have 
to  know  a  man  awfully  well  before  you  can  go  into 
rooms  with  him.  I  found  that  out  at  Oxford.  I  used 
to  wonder  a  great  deal  what  it  would  be  like,  my  living 
with  you.  I  think  you  're  changed  tremendously." 

' '  Changed: — how  ? ' ' 

"I  don't  know  exactly,  it's  so  difficult  to  explain. 
But  in  the  old  days — that  time  you  came  down  to 
Battlebury — you  seemed  just  the  same  as  all  other 
girls.  You  're  absolutely  different  now.  I  think  it  is," 
he  stumbled  over  his  thoughts,  "that  you  're  more 
like  a  man  than  any  one  I've  known.  I  mean  I  felt 
at  home  with  you  at  once,  just  as  if  we  were  old  friends. 
Most  women  are  so  silly  to  talk  to." 

"  What  a  queer  boy  you  are  !  "  she  laughed. 

"  I  'm  not  queer  a  bit,"  he  retorted,  picking  up  the 
cigarette.  "I'm  cnly  just  a  rather  dense,  ordinary 
sort  of  chap." 

"  So  you  're  really  glad  you  've  come  ?  " 

"  Rather.     But  I  don't  mind  telling  you  now  that 

I  didn't  care  much  for  the  idea,  when  you  first  wrote 
8 


114  Sentimental  Studies 

about  it  from  India.  I  wanted  to  be  independent.  I 
was  sick  of  being  looked  after." 

' '  What  made  you  change  your  mind  ?  ' ' 

"Oh,  several- things.  That  second  letter  you  wrote 
me.  I  thought  you  'd  be  lonely  perhaps,  now — now 
that —  He  sent  her  a  quick,  shy  glance. 

' '  Dear  ! ' '  Her  hand  stretched  out  towards  his. 
"You're  right.  I  did  feel  utterly  lonely;  as  if  the 
world  had  suddenly  grown  empty  all  around  me.  And 
Hal,  just  before  he  died — almost  the  last  words  " — (her 
voice  was  quavering)  ' '  said  '  When  you  get  back  look 
after  Ronald.'  We  often  talked  about  you,  and  he 
used  to  wait  for  your  letters  so  eagerly.  '  He  was  so 
fond  of  you." 

Ronald  stared  stiffly  into  the  fire,  struggling  with  his 
emotion. 

Presently  he  perceived  her  eyes  glistening. 

"  Oh  !  I  'm  so  awfully  sorry — I  did  n't  mean  to 
make  you  cry.  What  a  stupid  ass  I  am  ! ' ' 

"  No,  dear,  it 's  not  your  fault.  It 's  nothing.  You 
could  n't  help  it.  Go  on  talking.  It 's  better  to  talk 
about  these  things." 

"  I  wish  I  remembered  Hal  better,"  he  began  gravel 3% 
after  a  pause.  "  You  see  it 's  nine  years  since  he  went 
away.  I  was  a  lower-boy  at  Eton  then.  He  and  I 
never  saw  very  much  of  each  other  ;  he  was  so  much 
older.  I  used  to  think  about  him  a  good  deal  though, 
after  mother  died.  I  suppose  it  was  having  to  be  alone 


Battledore  and  Shuttlecock  1 15 

with  father.     That  was  a  beastly  time.    I  used  to  mark 
off  the  days  till  I  went  back  to  Eton,  on  a  calendar." 
"  Why,  did  n't  you  get  on  with  your  father?  " 
"Get  on  with   him — no,   I   never  did.     I  dare  say 
you  '11  think  I  ought  n't  to  talk  like  this,  but  I  can't 
help  it.     Directly  I  get  into  the  same  room  with  him  I 
feel  uncomfortable." 

"Oh,  Ronald,  what  a  pity  !  " 

"  I  dare  say  it  's  all  my  fault  ;  but  it 's  just  as  if  I 
had  to  bottle  myself  up,  and  pretend  to  see  everything 
just  as  he  does.  He  makes  me  feel  ever  so  far  beneath 
him.  It  was  always  the  same." 

"  But  had  n't  you  any  friends  down  there  ?  " 
"  No  ;  no  one  much.     Sometimes  some  of  my  Eton 
friends  came  to  stay  ;  but  he  always  used  to  treat  me 
before  them  as  if  I  was  a  little  school-boy — and  them 
too   sometimes.     I  hated  it  awfully,  and  of  course  I 
never  could  do  anything.    You  can't  imagine  how  keen, 
fellows  at  school  are  about  their  people."  \ 

"  And  after — when  you  went  to  Oxford  ?  " 
"  Oh  !  then  -I  used  to  stay  about  with  people  as 
much  as  I  could.  One  summer  I  went  on  a  walking 
tour  round  the  west  coast  of  Scotland,  with  a  sort  of 
tutor.  We  had  a  ripping  time.  Of  course  one  had  an 
enormous  number  of  friends  up  at  Oxford.  That 's  the 
worst  of  Oxford,  one  knows  such  a  crowd  of  men.  But 
they  're  all  so  much  alike,  Oxford  men,  I  think.  They 
all  say  the  same  things." 


Ii6  Sentimental  Studies 


She  rose  presently  from  her  chair,  to  look  at  the 
clock. 

"  Why,  it  's  eleven  already.  What  time  would  you 
like  to  breakfast  to-morrow  ? ' ' 

"  Well,  I  've  got  to  be  at  the  crammer's  at  half-past 
nine." 

"  Shall  I  order  it  for  half-past  eight  then  ?  " 

"That 'lido  splendidly." 

"Good-night,  Ronald." 

"Good-night,"  he  answered  a  little  awkwardly, 
jumping  to  his  feet. 

Her  hand  lingered  affectionately  in  his. 

' '  Put  out  the  lamp  when  you  go  up,"  she  added,  at 
the  door. 


II. 


WHEN  Helen  awoke  next  morning,  her  first 
thought  was  of  Ronald.  Like  a  ray  of  glad 
sunshine,  it  came  to  her.  She  looked  forward  eagerly 
to  the  companionship  of  this  first  breakfast  with  him, 
impatient  to  begin  the  routine  of  the  life  together.  So 
she  hurried  over  her  dressing  that  she  might  get  down- 
stairs quickly,  to  greet  him. 

She  was  tall  and  loosely-knit ;  flaxen  hair,  a  swing- 
ing gait,  and  a  large  simplicity  of  gesture  that  seemed 
inappropriately  clothed  in  widow's  weeds.  Her  fea- 
tures, though  faulty  and  individually  insignificant, 
achieved,  in  their  combination,  an  immediate  charm, 
by  means  of  the  rare  spontaneity,  fearlessness  almost, 
of  regard. 

Her  marriage  with  Ronald's  elder  brother  had  been 
an  unison  almost  without  flaw.  In  the  gentleness  of 
his  unsoiled  instincts,  backed  by  sheer  robustness,  she 
had  definitely  realised  her  ideal  of  the  lovable  in  man. 
Alone  with  him  in  a  beautiful  and  remote  station, 
where  the  sequence  of  dreamy,  uneventful  days  cheated 
the  flight  of  time,  she  had  drifted,  unchecked,  into  an 
entire  merging  of  herself  in  the  play  of  his  personality. 
For  she  had  no  child. 

"7 


i  18  Sentimental  Studies 

Later,  when  they  removed  to  Calcutta,  amid  the  nov- 
elty of  strange  faces,  social  tasks,  and  the  annual  sum- 
mer separation,  their  intimacy  was  securely  sealed, 
beyond  danger  ef  damage. 

It  was  in  the  spring  of  the  third  year  there  that  he 
died,  at  the  end  of  five  days'  fever. 

During  the  night  after  the  funeral,  she  attempted  to 
take  poison  ;  the  thought  that  she  was  left  behind 
maddened  her.  There  followed  a  long  period  of  ner- 
vous prostration  and  emotional  numbness,  while  time 
built  for  her  a  barrier  between  the  present  and  the  past. 

When  she  was  herself  again,  she  was  conscious  of 
but  one  desire — to  avoid  the  faces  who  had  known  him, 
to  be  alone  with  her  sorrow.  By-and-bye,  vague,  filetr- 
ing  hopes  of  relief  by  the  side  of  his  young  brother 
Ronald  roused  her.  She  started  for  England.  Some- 
times, during  the  voyage,  sitting  on  deck,  watching 
the  lazy  rhythm  of  blue  billows,  she  dimly  foresaw 
how,  if  the  boy  failed  her,  life  would  be  altogether 
dismal  and  bare.  Then  the  intolerable  ache  of  yearn- 
ing would  start  again,  the  sickening  remembrance  that 
Hal  was  gone,  gone  for  always,  that  it  was  over,  that 
it  could  never  be  again.  It  was  but  listlessly  that  she 
clutched  at  belief  in  a  meeting  after  death  ;  she  could 
not  escape  from  the  near  presence  of  the  irrevocable. 

But  when  Ronald  arrived  from  Oxford,  to  live  with 
her  in  her  new  London  house,  while  he  worked  for  his 
army  examination,  her  torpor  lifted,  like  a  murky  fog- 


Battledore  and  Shuttlecock  119 

curtain,  and  she  beheld  the  world  a-glitter  once  more. 
A  haze  settled  down  over  the  memories  of  the  past, 
blurring  their  edge,  and  the  traces  of  her  sorrow  faded, 
leaving  her  bright  with  vitality. 

While  she  was  coiling  her  hair,  she  saw  him  again, 
as  a  lanky,  unattractive  boy,  who  was  stubbornly  rude 
to  her  because  she  was  engaged  to  his  elder  brother. 
Once  Hal  had  boxed  his  ears,  and  sent  him  in  to  her 
to  apologise.  He  stood  sheepishly  in  the  doorway,  his 
face  aflame,  throwing  his  excuse  at  her  defiantly.  And 
before  she  could  attempt  to  soothe  him,  he  was  gone 
in  ruffled  dignity. 

How  like  he  had  grown  to  Hal — a  certain  poise  of 
the  head,  certain  tones  of  his  voice  !  At  first  she  had 
recoiled  from  this  resemblance  ;  but  now,  she  was 
happy  in  brooding  on  it.  For  it  removed  the  strained 
sense  of  strangeness,  and  swathed  in  a  soft  tint  of 
melancholy  the  prospect  of  her  affection  for  him. 


III. 


RONALD  adapted  himself  to  his  new  surround- 
ings with  the  quick  pliability  of  youth  still  in- 
nocent of  habit  ;  traversing  in  the  transition  from 
boisterous  irresponsibility  to  the  restraint  of  routine  no 
intermediary  period  of  restlessness.  The  repetition  of 
the  daily  morning  walk  to  his  crammer's  ;  of  the 
return  across  the  Park,  all  wrapped  in  the  drab  haze 
of  lingering  day  ;  of  the  uneventful  evenings,  when, 
lulled  to  drowsy  contentment  by  the  day's  work,  he 
talked  idly  to  Helen — he  accepted  its  whole  quiet 
monotony  with  easy  cheerfulness. 

And  he  grew  to  enjoy  the  hours  spent  with  her. 
Little  by  little  she  encouraged  him  to  assume  with  her 
small  airs  of  authority,  almost  of  proprietorship  ;  to 
insist  on  her  wearing  furs  when  the  wind  was  bitter, 
or  thick  boots  when  the  streets  were  wet.  Thus  she 
made  him  conscious  of  his  male  superiority,  impregnat- 
ing with  a  subtle  charm  the  novelty  of  his  independ- 
ence. He  thought  now  of  his  father's  attitude  towards 
him  with  aggressive  disgust.  Feminine  companionship 
was  new  to  him,  and  close  familiarity  with  her  pro- 
voked in  him  a  vague,  questioning  interest  in  woman- 
kind. His  consciousness  of  sex  slept  less  soundly. 

1 20 


Battledore  and  Shuttlecock  121 


Meanwhile,  stimulated  by  pride  in  his  own  conscien- 
tiousness, he  accomplished  his  daily  tasks  thoroughly  ; 
looking  forward  to  his  profession  eagerly,  stirred  when 
a  regiment  passed  him  in  the  Park,  discussing  with 
Helen  historical  campaigns.  Several  of  the  faces  at 
the  crammer's  were  familiar  to  him  :  but  he  purposely 
restricted  all  intercourse  to  conventional  greetings  ;  flat 
comments  on  the  weather  or  the  work  ;  curt,  mutual 
recollections  of  Oxford  men.  All  proposals  for  evening 
amusements  he  declined,  unwilling  for  change. 


IV. 


ONE  evening,  when  they  had  finished  dinner, 
Helen  retired  to  her  room.  Ronald  sat  for  a 
while  in  the  drawing-room  fidgeting  with  his  note- 
books. He  was  sick  of  work,  sick  of  the  sight  of  the 
shiny  covers.  The  sense  of  cramping  confinement 
chafed  him,  his  legs  tingled  with  pent-up  energy,  he 
was  eager  for  activity.  He  left  the  house.  Tighten- 
ing his  sinews,  stiffening  his  shoulder,  ready  from 
sheer  excess  of  vigour  to  buffet  the  passers,  he  strode 
along. 

Immediately  he  entered  the  theatre,  the  sudden 
sight  of  the  scene  stopped  him,  revealed,  as  it  were, 
through  a  great  gap.  The  stage  blazed  white  ;  masses 
of  recumbent  girls,  bathed  in  soft  tints,  swayed  to 
dreamy  cadence  of  muffled  violins,  before  the  quiver- 
ing, gold-flecked  minarets  of  an  Eastern  palace.  He 
leaned  against  the  side  of  the  lounge  to  gaze  down 
across  the  black  belt  of  heads.  The  sight  bewildered 
him.  By-and-bye  he  became  conscious  of  a  hum  of 
voices  and  a  continual  movement  behind  him.  He 

turned   to  look. 

123 


Battledore  and  Shuttlecock  12 


Men,  for  the  most  part  in  evening  dress,  were  pass- 
ing in  procession  to  and  fro,  some  women  amongst 
them,  smiling  as  they  twittered  mirthlessly  ;  now  and 
then  he  caught  glimpses  of  others  seated  before  little 
round  tables  ;  vacant,  impassive,  like  wax-work  fig- 
ures, he  thought.  He  felt  ill-at-ease,  almost  wished 
he  had  not  come  in.  A  vision  of  Helen,  pale  with 
headache,  flitted  before  his  mind's  eye,  succeeded  by  a 
glimmering  perception  of  the  sense  of  things.  He 
started  in  chase  of  this  fleeting  perception,  only  to  en- 
tangle himself  amidst  the  incoherence  of  novel  sensa- 
tion. Then  his  face  grew  hot,  the  gaze  of  one  of  the 
seated  figures  was  upon  him  ;  he  turned  hastily  back 
to  the  stage. 

He  was  throbbing  with  trepidating  curiosity,  buffeted 
by  irresolution.  The  music  clashed  triumphantly,  and 
the  dancers,  massed  together,  formed  a  solid,  whirling 
wheel  of  glittering  humanity.  Exhilaration  and  a 
quiet,  tense  composure  took  possession  of  him.  As  he  | 
faced  round  again  his  foot  encountered  an  obstacle. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon."  The  exclamation  came  me- 
chanically. 

"It  didn't  hurt  a  bit." 

Amusement  was  dancing  in  her  big,  baby  eyes,  and 
friendliness  on  her  open  lips.  The  strains  of  the  band, 
the  restless  flow  around  him,  everything  vanished  ;  lie 
was  only  aware  of  her  face  sparkling  upon  him. 

The  ceasing  of  her  voice  nipped  the  spell,  and  he 


124  Sentimental  Studies 


dropped  back  to  a  consciousness  of  the  external.  He 
comprehended  in  a  flash  that  he  was  talking  to  a  girl 
in  the  lounge  of  a  music-hall.  And  the  image  of 
Helen  flitted  past,  almost  unobserved. 

Beside  the  girl  he  felt  himself  clumsy  and  clownish  ; 
he  recollected  his  muddy  boots. 

"Have  you  been  here  before? "  she  was  asking  him. 

He  was  busy  noting  her  large-brimmed,  black  velvet 
hat ;  the  soft  duskiness  of  her  skin,  which  a  feather 
boa  caressed  ;  her  white,  tight-fitting  gloves,  and  the 
gold  bangles  on  her  wrists. 

"  No,  I  've  only  just  come,"  he  answered. 

Her  face  still  sparkled. 

' '  Have  you  been  here  long  ?  "  he  stammered. 

She  had  not  heard  him  ;  she  was  smiling  across  at 
some  one  in  the  crowd.  He  imagined  that  she  was 
slipping  from  him,  and  roused  himself  rudely  from  his 
contemplation. 

"  Aren't  there  any  seats?  "  His  e3^es  pretended  to 
search  the  balcony  ostentatiously  ;  but  in  reality  every- 
thing appeared  blurred. 

"  L,et  's  go  and  see,"  she  suggested,  bringing  her 
glance  back  to  him. 

They  moved  to  the  gangway,  and  he  sat  down  beside 
her  in  the  back  row.  Her  tiny,  shell-like  ear  held  his 
gaze,  while  he  beat  his  brain  for  some  remark  which 
would  cause  her  to  think  well  of  him. 

"  Did  you  see  the  performing  birds  ?  "  she  said.    "  I 


Battledore  and  Shuttlecock  125 

love  birds,  I  've  got  one  at  home.  He  sings  beauti- 
fully." 

"  No,  I  did  n't  see  them.     Were  they  good  ?  " 

"There  are  two  pigeons,  who  draw  a  carriage  with 
some  dressed-up  sparrows  in  it,  right  round  the  stage. ' ' 

"  By  Jove  !     I  wish  I  'd  seen  that." 

"  They  've  been  going  on  a  long  while.  Have  n't 
you  been  here  before  ? ' ' 

"No." 

' '  Do  you  generally  go  to  the  Alhambra  ? ' ' 

"  No,  I  've  not  been  there  either  yet.  I  've  only 
been  in  town  a  short  while,  you  see.  And  I  'm  work- 
ing very  hard." 

"You  're  in  business?  " 

"  No,  I  'm  going  in  for  an  exam — for  the  army." 

"  Is  it  very  difficult  ?  " 

"  Yes.  You  see  one  has  to  know  such  a  lot  of  differ- 
ent things." 

"  You  're  awfully  young,"  she  said  presently. 

He  reddened,  apprehensive  of  her  disapprobation. 

"  Yes,  awfully  young,"  she  concluded  decisively. 

She  seemed  to  be  thinking  to  herself.  The  music 
had  softened  again.  She  was  beautiful,  he  thought, 
and  abandoned  himself  to  the  glow  of  pride  at  being 
with  her. 

"  What  's  your  name?  "  she  asked. 

' '  Ronald  Thornycroft.  And — will  you  tell  me 
yours  ? ' ' 


126  Sentimental  Studies 


"Midge." 

"  Midge— what  ?" 

"Midge — that's  all — nothing  else."  Her  face  was 
sparkling  upon  him,  as  when  she  had  first  spoken  to 
him.  "Do  you  know  any  of  the  girls  here?"  she 
began. 

' '  No — do  you  ? ' ' 

"  Do  you  live  by  yourself?  " 

"Yes,  mostly  ;  my  father  lives  in  the  country  and 
my  mother  is  dead. ' ' 

"  I  'm  so  sorry,"  she  exclaimed.  Her  tone  troubled 
him  instantly  ;  her  face,  he  saw,  had  grown  quite  grave. 

"  It  's  a  long  time  ago,"  he  explained.  Their  eyes 
met,  and  she  smiled  at  him  again. 

"  Do  you  know,  I  'm  going  home  next  month — down 
to  the  country.  I  love  the  country." 

"So  do  I,"  he  answered. 
.  "And  the  sea-side  ?     Do  you  care  for  the  sea-side  ? " 

"  I  don't  know.     I  have  n't  been  there  much." 

"  I  was  down  there  in  the  summer.  I  'm  awfully 
fond  of  the  roar  of  the  waves  and  the  wind,  when  the 
sea  gets  black  and  angry,  and  seems  to  show  its 
teeth." 

The  music  crashed  before  stopping  ;  the  curtain  slid 
down. 

"Shall  we  go  back?  The  ballet  's  over.  Lend  me 
your  programme." 

He  waited  while  she  wrote  with  a  tiny  silver  pencil- 


Battledore  and  Shuttlecock  127 


case.  As  they  regained  the  lounge,  she  thrust  the 
programme  into  his  hand,  saying  : 

"  There  's  my  address." 

He  took  it  and  moved  forward  to  a  clear  space.  •  When 
he  turned  to  look  for  her  she  was  gone. 


M 


V. 


IDGE  was  feeding  her  canary,  humming  a  waltz- 
tune  to  herself  the  while  ;  lazily  lingering  over 
the  thrill  that  filtered  through  her,  as  she  reminded 
herself  how,  since  last  night,  she  had  fallen  in  love.  .  .  . 

"  Don't  "  .she  exclaimed,  with  an  affectation  of  pet- 
tishness,  roused  from  her  dream-land  by  the  nip  of  the 
bird's  beak.  "  What  a  bother  you  are,  master  im- 
patience ! ' '  She  scattered  some  hemp  seeds  over  the 
floor  of  the  cage  ;  the  plump  little  mass  of  yellow  fluff 
hopped  down,  vigorously  dipping  his  head. 

.  .  .  He 'd  got  such  a  nice  face.  .  .  .  If  she 
could  just  be  friends  with  him  .  .  .  keep  him  to 
herself  .  .  .  out  of  the  way  of  harm.  .  .  .  He 
looked  so  young  .  .  .  she  could  become  such  friends 
with  a  boy  like  that  .  .  .  real  friends  .  .  .  differ- 
ent, separate  from  the  others.  .  .  .  He  had  made 
her  feel  so  queer,  uncomfortable,  unhappy  almost,  last 
night  ;  she  could  n't  help  running  away  from  him 
...  he  might  so  easily  have  spoilt  it  all  for  her.  .  .  . 
And  she  had  lain  awake  in  the  dark,  such  a  long  while, 
dreaming  about  him.  .  .  .  Yes,  she  was  quite  in  love 

with  him.     .     .     . 

128 


Battledore  and  Shuttlecock  ]  29 

She  moved  to  the  window.  The  hoar-frost  had  come, 
decking  the  trees  in  the  square  ;  and  the  sky  was  white 
with  the  glare  of  winter  sun.  How  pretty  everything 
looked  in  the  clear  morning  light  !  A  man  with  a 
barrow-full  of  cabbages  was  moving  slowly  down  the 
street,  leading  his  donkey,  all  brown  and  furry,  chant- 
ing as  he  went.  She  tried  to  catch  the  meaning  of  his 
cry.  ...  A  congregation  of  fat  sparrows  were  taking 
their  dust-bath  and  combing  their  wings  in  the  road- 
way. One  little  fellow  had  lost  his  tail  ;  he  was  .so 
comical  when  he  tried  to  fly. 

She  crumbled  a  biscuit  on  to  the  window-sill,  and 
hid  behind  the  curtain,  peeping  and  waiting.  But  they 
refused  to  come  ;  they  sat  in  a  row  on  the  railings, 
jerking  their  heads  from  side  to  side,  as  if  by  clock- 
work. She  began  to  hum  the  waltz-tune  over  again. 

.  .  .  Yes,  something  about  that  boy's  face  was 
sweet  and  gentle.  .  .  .  She  'd  never  known  anyi 
one  quite  like  him.  .  .  .  She  felt  certain  they^ 
would  get  along  together.  .  .  .  How  that  tune 
kept  running  in  her  head  !  .  .  . 

She  seated  herself  before  the  piano,  and  started  to 
strum  it. 


Of  a  sudden,  in  the  full,  languorous  swing  of  a 
phrase,  the  piano-lid  crashed,  rattling  the  whole  room. 
She  had  caught  his  reflection  in  the  mirror. 


130  Sentimental  Studies 

"  My  goodness  !  "  she  gasped,  half  swinging  round 
on  the  stool.  "  How  you  did  startle  me  !  " 

"I'm  very  sorry.  ...  I  didn't  mean  to." 
He  stood  blinking  at  her  white  cheeks. 

"  There,  it  's  all  right  now.  ...  It  made  me 
feel  quite  bad.  ...  I  never  expected  you  'd  come 
— so  soon,  I  mean.  .  .  .  I  was  just  thinking  about 
you." 

There  was  a  red  hat-mark  across  his  forehead  ;  oth- 
erwise he  was  just  the  same  as  last  night  ;  his  open 
stare  was  unchanged. 

"  Had  breakfast  ?" 

"Yes — at  half-past  eight." 

"  Oh  !  I  forgot — you  've  got  a  holiday  to-day?  " 

<(  It  's  Sunday." 

"  So  it  is  !  "  she  cried,  her  face  rippling.  "  Fancy 
my  not  knowing  that.  How  dreadful  !  "  Then,  rue- 
fully examining  her  skirt :  "  And  I  'm  not  fit  to  be 
seen." 

"But  you  are,  really — you're  lovely,"  he  blurted 
out  hastily,  combating  in  all  seriousness  her  deprecia- 
tion of  herself.  ' '  I  think  you  are  even  prettier  than 
last  night." 

She  uttered  a  quick,  nervous  laugh. 

Her  unloosened  hair  was  romping  in  rich  folds 
over  her  shoulders  ;  a  white  flannel  dressing-gown 
clung  to  her  bust,  while  within  the  hollow  of  her  fall- 
ing sleeves  he  perceived  her  white  arms.  She  reminded 


Battledore  and  Shuttlecock 


him  of  some  school-picture  of  a  Greek  priestess.  And 
his  eyes  went  on  devouring  her. 

"  Please  sit  down.  You  look  so  uncomfortable. 
J  .  .  I  say,  are  you  always  solemn  like  this  ?  You 
don't  know  how  glum  you  look.  No  wonder  you 
startled  me." 

He  coloured,  and  sat  down  opposite  her  stiffly. 

"  There,  don't  be  vexed  ;  I  did  n't  mean  to  laugh  at 
you,  Ronald.  You  see  I  've  remembered  your  name." 

His  eyes  were  travelling  round  the  room  ;  he  was 
unaware  how  she  was  watching  him. 

"  Is  that  your  canary?  "  he  said  at  last. 

"  Come  and  look  at  him  ;  he  's  such  a  darling." 

"  Does  he  do  any  tricks?"  he  asked,  as  they  stood 
together  by  the  cage. 

"  No — only  bites — awfully  hard  sometimes." 

She  chirped  to  the  bird,  pursing  her  lips.  He  felt 
his  heart  thump  ;  his  teeth  began  to  chatter. 

"  How  cold  you  are  !  Go  and  warm  yourself  at  the 
fire.  ...  I  say,  I  've  got  an  idea.  Do  you  know 
a  game  called  Badminton?" 

"  No  ;  what  is  it?" 

"  Oh  !  it 's  splendid  fun.  It 's  like  lawn-tennis,  only 
you  play  with  battledores  and  shuttlecocks.  .  .  . 
Here,  just  move  these  chairs  out  of  the  way.  .  .  . 
Now  the  table.  .  .  .'  Mind  !  you  '11  spill  the  flow- 
ers. .  .  .  Wait,  I  '11  help  you.  .  .  .  Now  for 
the  string.  There  it  is  on  the  piano.  .  .  .  Catch 


132  Sentimental  Studies 

hold  of  the  end — see,  it  wants  knotting.  .  .  .  This 
nail  '11  do.  .  .  .  Tie  the  other  end  on  to  the 
curtain  hook — no,  you  silly  boy,  over  there,  opposite. 
.  .  .  Now  that  anti-macassar.  .  .  .  Give  us 
your  handkerchief.  Spread  them  out  over  the  string. 
.  .  .  That  's  beautiful.  .  .  .  Now  for  the  bat- 
tledores. They  're  on  the  top  of  the  cupboard. 
.  .  .  Get  on  the  table.  .  .  .  Take  care — you  '11 
fall.  .  .  .  Put  your  hand  on  my  shoulder.  .  .  . 
All  right,  it  doesn't  hurt.  l,ean  on  me.  .  .  .  Now 
then,  you  go  the  other  side.  .  .  .  I  '11  begin. 
Ready!  Play!" 

Pang  !  pang  !  pang  !  pang  !  .  .  .  the  shuttle- 
cock flew  from  one  to  the  other.  At  last  it  struck  the 
string,  hesitated,  and  toppled  over. 

"Good  stroke!"  he  cried  enthusiastically. 
' '  What 's  that  ?  Fifteen  ?  How  do  you  count  ? ' ' 

"  That's  nothing." 

"  No,  no  ;  of  course  it  must  count." 

' '  Don' t  contradict.     Play  ! ' ' 

The  shuttlecock  whizzed  to  and  fro.  Both  were 
warming  to  the  game.  They  were  evenly  matched, 
though  she  played  with  easy  skill,  and  he  with  labori- 
ous clumsiness.  Their  countenances  grew  graver  and 
graver,  only  intent  on  the  flight  of  the  feathers.  For 
several  minutes  no  comment  passed  between  them,  only, 
at  the  end  of  each  bout,  Ronald  mechanically  regis- 
tered the  score. 


Battledore  and  Shuttlecock  133 

"Take  that  !  "  he  called  suddenly,  loosing  his  en- 
ergy awkwardly  in  a  slash.  But  the  shuttlecock  shot 
under  the  string,  and  tumbled  at  her  feet. 

"Hurrah  !  Game  to  me  !"  And  she  clapped  her 
battledore  gleefully. 

"Your  service,"  he  replied  grimlj'.  And,  with  a 
renewed  volley  of  battledore  blows,  the  battle  raged 
again. 

.     .      .      Deuce  !     .  Vantage  in  !     . 

Midge  held  the  game,  playing  securely,  while  Ronald 
contorted  his  body  to  ungainly  angles.  He  seemed  on 
the  point  of  missing  every  time. 

All  at  once  her  battledore  caught  a  picture-edge  and 
the  shuttlecock  alighted  on  the  floor. 

"Damn  that  thing!"  she  broke  out,  vindictively 
staring  in  its  face. 

"  Come,"  remonstrated  Ronald  from  across  the  bar- 
rier. "  You  've  another  chance  yet." 

"Play!"  she  called  excitedly.  But  she  failed  to 
reach  the  return  volley.  The  game  was  his. 

"Ugh!  I  am  hot."  She  flung  herself  into  an  arm- 
chair. "Have  a  cigarette?  There's  some  in  that 
case  on  the  mantelpiece." 

He  saw  two  letters,  G.S.,  stamped  on  the  leather  in- 
side. Why  were  they  there  ?  he  wondered  rapidly. 

"Well,  and  me?  Are  n't  you  going  to  offer  me 
one?" 


134  Sentimental  Studies 

"  I  beg  your  pardon." 

"Perhaps  you  think  it  wrong  to  smoke?"  she 
queried,  roguishly  turning  her  eyes  up  to  him,  the 
cigarette  between  her  lips. 

"No,  I  don't— not  at  all." 

"Then  give  me  a  light." 

"I  say,  you  were  awfully  shy  at  first,  weren't 
you?"  She  was  pensively  flicking  the  ash  with  her 
little  finger. 

"Yes,"  he  acknowledged,  colouring.  "But  I'm 
not  a  bit  now,"  he  added,  smiling  at  her  frankly. 

"  No,  I  see  that,"  she  retorted. 

"  Why  did  you  disappear  like  that  last  night  ?  Were 
you  offended  with  me  ?  ' ' 

She  sat  without  answering,  perplexedly  watching 
the  ascending  streak  of  smoke.  Presently  she  looked 
up,  her  expression  clear. 

"  I  '11  tell  you  straight  out  all  about  it.  The 
minute  you  spoke  to  me  I  liked  your  face  awfully. 
You  somehow  seemed  to  me  quite  different  from  all  the 
rest.  .  .  .  You  looked  so  young  and  shy  and  be- 
wildered. And  then,  I  was  afraid  5^ou  'd  say  something 
— you  wouldn't  understand  how  it  was  I  liked  you. 
It  was  just  an  idea  of  mine.  .  .  .  When  I  got 
home  I  thought  how  jolly  it  would  be  if  I  were  to  be 
friends  with  you — proper  friends,  I  mean.  I  wouldn't 
mind  if  I  didn't  see  you  very  often  ;  if  only  I  just 


Battledore  and  Shuttlecock  135 

knew  it  was  like  that.  I  would  n't  bother  you  ;  I  can 
look  after  myself  all  right."  She  stopped  in  anxious 
expectancy. 

He  felt  himself  suddenly  overflowing  with  devotion 
to  her ;  he  longed  desperately  to  be  able  to  afford  her 
some  striking  proof  of  his  gratitude.  And  the  novel 
sense  of  important  responsibility  towards  her  swelled 
his  exultation. 

"I  will  be  your  friend  always,"  he  answered 
simply. 

"  Perhaps  I  seem  to  you  ridiculous,  talking  like  this 
when  I  have  only  seen  you  once  before.  But  I  'm  like 
that.  I  always  do  things  just  as  they  come.  It 's  my 
way — I  can't  help  it.  If  I  could,  perhaps  things  would 
have  been  quite  different.  Now  you  know  exactly 
what  I  am,  don't  you  ? ' ' 

He  flushed  crimson  ;  his  whole  being  rose  in  revolt 
against  the  brutal  thought  she  forced  upon  him.  His 
troubled  glance  appealed  to  her,  but  she  did  not  seem 
to  notice.  The  moment  of  silence  that  followed  quick- 
ened the  whirl  of  his  perplexity. 

"  Yes,"  he  blurted  out,  with  a  supreme  effort.  "  But 
that  doesn't  matter.  ...  It  doesn't  make  any 
difference.  .  .  .  It  isn't  your  fault,  I  mean.  .  .  . 
You  are  n't  any  the  worse.  ...  I  respect  you 
just  the  same.  .  .  ."  Hot  shame  hustled  the  words 
helter-skelter  to  his  lips. 

"  YOU  're  a  dear  good  boy  to  say  that.     But  you  're 


136  Sentimental  Studies 

wrong.  I  don't  mind  telling  you  that.  I  've  got  no 
one  to  blame  but  myself.  .  .  .  Promise  me  you  '11 
come  and  see  me  again.  .  .  .  Promise." 

' '  I  promise, l '  he  said  solemnly,  ' '  to  do  whatever  you 
ask  me." 

As  he  ceased  speaking,  she  laughed  a  little  excitedly. 
Then  jumping  up,  with  a  sudden  lightness  of  tone : 

' '  My  goodness  !     1  am  hungry.     Are  n't  you  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  am,  rather." 

"Well  now,  tell  me,  what  would  you  like  for  lunch  ?  " 

He  hesitated. 

"I'm  most  awfully  sorry — the  fact  is,  I  ought  to  go 
home.  My  sister-in-law  asked  a  friend  of  mine  to 
lunch.  But  I  '11  come  back  as  soon  as  I  can." 

"  No,  you  mustn't  do  that." 

"  I  '11  stay  then.     After  all,  it  does  n't  matter." 

She  shook  her  head. 

He  felt  pride  in  obeying. 

' '  May  I  come  to  see  you  to-morrow  ? — in  the  morn- 
ing ?" 

"  No  ;  you  must  go  to  your  work." 

"  But  I  must  see  you,"  he  objected  impetuously. 

"Well,  if  you  must  then,"  she  answered,  laughing  ; 
"  would  you  like  to  take  me  out  to  dinner  ?  " 

"  Most  awfully.     To-morrow?  " 

"Yes;  come  to  fetch  me  at  half-past  seven.  Now 
good-bye,  or  you  '11  be  late  for  your  friend." 

He  took  her  outstretched  hand,     She  looked  for  a 


Battledore  and  Shuttlecock  137 

moment  straight  into  his  eyes,  and  then  he  moved 
away. 

"  Good-bye,  till  to-morrow — at  half-past  seven,"  he 
forced  himself  to  say. 

"  Good-bye,"  she  repeated  quietly. 


VI. 


FASTER  and  faster  he  walked,  struggling  to  cheat 
the  longing  to  return  to  her.  The  keen  air 
flicked  his  cheeks,  and  the  crisp,  whitened  turf  of  the 
Park  crackled  under  his  tread.  Behind  the  frail  tracery 
of  the  twigs,  peeping  between  the  gaunt  arms  of  the 
black-skinned  trees,  dancing  over  the  ripples  that  shim- 
mered silver  across  the  lake,  he  beheld  her  sparkling 
smile.  .  .  . 

He  was  her  friend  .  .  .  her  friend.  .  .  . 
The  word  coursed  exultantly  through  him,  echoing 
and  re-echoing.  The  scene  lived  again  ;  he  saw  her 
rippling  rivulets  of  hair ;  he  felt  the  quick  play  of 
her  gaze  ;  he  heard  the  ring  of  her  laughter ;  her 
voice  spoke  to  him  ;  he  replied  to  her  ;  once  more,  in  a 
corner  of  that  disordered  room,  their  bond  was 
sealed.  .  .  . 

She  stood,  a  white  and  dazzling  figure,  blocking  the 
centre  of  his  imagination  ;  exquisite,  wonderful,  yet 
having  accorded  him  the  intoxicating  privilege  of  fa- 
miliarity. 

He  pictured  himself  by  her  side,  intimate,  confiden- 
tial, grateful,  reckless  in  devotion  ;  or  strong,  protec- 

138 


Battledore  and  Shuttlecock  139 

tive,  necessary  ;  or  again,  before  the  world,  masking 
the  bond  in  proud  uuobtrusiveness,  and  so  always,  on, 
on,  into  the  misty  future. 

Only  he  and  she  remained  in  the  world — alone,  and 
together  the  rest  faded  to  thin  silhouettes.  Helen 
slipped  to  the  fringe  of  his  life.  The  luncheon  towards 
which  he  was  walking  became  unreal,  like  a  stage- 
scene,  in  which  a  part  had  been  set  for  him.  The  time 
till  to-morrow  evening  was  as  a  stretch  of  colourless 
waste. 

Then,  under  his  care,  how  beautiful  she  would  look  ! 
.  .  .  Her  tiny,  white-gloved  hands,  and  the  gold 
bangles  encircling  her  wrists  !  And  all  during  dinner, 
while,  with  the  waiters  moving  behind,  they  discussed 
trivial  topics,  he  would  know  that  she  had  secretly 
chosen  him — set  him  apart.  His  blood  quickened  with 
excited  anticipation.  .  .  . 

Ignorance  simplified  his  whole  prospect :  blind  jeal- 
ousy of  the  male,  unpricked  by  the  goad  of  sexual  vi- 
sion, drowsed  on  ;  the  welling-up  of  unsullied  chivalry 
held  him  to  the  exact  letter  of  her  appeal.  Eagerly  he 
exchanged  the  crude  name  she  had  driven  him  to  give 
her  for  another  of  gentler  import,  and  that  he  accepted 
readily,  slurring  its  significance.  His  faith  in  his  own 
exaltation  was  spontaneous,  unquestioning. 

And  he  seemed  to  see  the  past  months  mapped  out 
behind  him,  hollow,  empty  of  purpose,  filled  by  a  sense- 
less accumulation  of  poor  trivialities.  Across  the 


140  Sentimental  Studies 


newly  kindled  glow,  he  caught  Sittings  of  vague  possi- 
bilities, hints  of  a  life  permeated  by  sound,  exhilarating 
goodness.  He  remembered,  with  a  twinge  of  repentant 
shame,  certain  tacit  acquiescences  in  obscene  college 
conversations  ;  henceforward  he  felt  himself  ennobled, 
lifted  above  the  common  ruck.  . 

Stout,  over-clothed  ladies,  coming  from  church, 
passed  him ;  men  in  smooth-fitting,  tight-buttoned 
coats,  carrying  along  with  them  a  torpid,  Sunday  air ; 
children  trotting  gravely,  as  if  oppressed  by  stiff  gar- 
ments ;  the  streets  bare  ;  the  houses  asleep  ;  the  shops 
barred  up  and  lifeless  :  from  sheer  frolic  of  heart  he 
fell  to  noting  the  quaint  physiognomy  of  the  London 
Sabbath. 


VII. 

SHE  was  in  black  ;  a  sleeveless  dress,  just  betray- 
ing her  breasts,  banded  at  the  waist  with  vivid 
crimson.  Her  smooth  hair  hung  low  over  her  nape, 
as  was  the  fashion,  in  a  dark,  heavy  coil ;  and  the  sim- 
plicity of  her  bare  arms  and  neck  was  unspoiled  by 
ornament. 

And  he — she  was  proud  of  him  in  evening  attire, 
straight  and  lithe  and  correctly  spotless  ;  his  hair 
brushed  in  a  clean  sweep  back  from  his  forehead,  and 
drifting,  above  the  ears,  into  crisp  curls. 

He  took  command  of  her  at  once  ;  authoritatively 
deciding  the  place  of  the  dinner,  insisting  that  she  was 
well  wrapped  at  the  throat.  And  to  his  deferential 
protection  she  abandoned  herself  with  delight. 

They  sped  lightly  away,  the  bell  on  the  horse's 
neck  tinkling  shrilly,  past  dark  houses  and  blazing 
shops. 

"It's  freezing,  I  believe,"  he  remarked.  "Glass 
down,"  he  shouted  up  through  the  trap. 

The  window  descended  slowly  ;  she  nestled  almost 
imperceptibly  against  his  shoulder  ;  he  was  adorable, 
she  told  herself. 

At  the  restaurant,  she  found  a  room  reserved,  and  a 
141 


Sentimental  Studies 


dinner  ordered.  And,  as  he  relieved  her  of  her  cloak 
and  lace  wrapper,  she  became  conscious  that  he  had 
none  of  that  indefinable  air  of  obtrusive  proprietorship, 
adopted  on  like  occasions  by  other  men.  For  a  while 
she  made  pretence  of  chatting  carelessly  ;  but  his  atti- 
tude towards  her,  continuing  gravely,  a  little  elabo- 
rately, respectful,  swelled  her  gratitude,  choked  her 
spirits,  and  swathed  her  happiness  in  sentimental 
melancholy. 

A  dreamy  mood  crept  over  her  irresistibly,  evoking 
blurred  glimpses  of  past  scenes  ;  she  forgot  him,  feel- 
ing herself  curiously  alone  and  isolated.  No  bitterness 
flavoured  her  musings,  only  fleeting,  half-formulated 
wonderings  ;  no  rankling  remembrance  of  male  cru- 
elty ;  no  savagely  revolting  realisation  of  the  part  she 
played.  She  had  found  men  pleasant,  affectionate, 
generous. 

So  she  recalled  each  one,  without  rancour  ;  and  of 
one  she  thought  almost  tenderly,  for  he  was  now  dead. 
Yet  when,  awakening,  she  looked  across  at  Ronald, 
her  eyes  grew  hot,  and  her  sight  misty.  She  felt  the 
rising  of  a  passionate  longing  to  cry  —  from  no  grief, 
for  no  reason.  Clenching  her  lips  she  fought  with  the 
hungering  for  tears,  struggling  to  hear  his  words,  to 
see  her  plate  clearly. 

He  had  noticed  her  untouched  food,  her  inconse- 
quent replies,  the  tight  lines  of  her  mouth  ;  and  the 
end  of  the  dinner  seemed  to  him  interminable. 


Battledore  and  Shuttlecock  143 

"What  is  it,  Midge?  Are  you  feeling  bad?"  he 
asked  quickly,  as  the  door  closed  behind  the  obsequious 
waiter. 

"  No,  of  course  not.     It 's  nothing." 

But  the  next  moment  she  was  sobbing  with  her  head 
on  the  table.  . 

She  felt  the  firm  clasp  of  his  hands  round  her  head, 
trying  to  raise  it ;  and  between  the  throbs  of  her 
weeping  she  heard  him  saying  : 

"...  Don't  .  .  .  don't  cry.  .  .  .  What 
is  it?  .  .  .  Can't  I  do  anything?  .  .  ." 

But  she  let  the  tears  flow  on  unchecked  ;  they  brought 
her  warm  relief.  .  .  .  Presently  his  hands  were  on 
her  head  again  ;  she  submitted.  And  when  he  had 
gently  lifted  the  face,  a  smile  was  gleaming  through 
her  tears,  like  the  sparkle  of  sunshine  across  a  fleeting 
shower. 

"Are  n't  I  a  silly  ?" 

"  But  what  were  you  crying  for?  " 

"Idon'tknow.  It  came  quite  suddenly."  Shelaid 
her  hand  on  his.  "You  're  a  good,  kind  boy.  I  'm 
not  often  like  that." 

He  remembered  quickly  how  Helen  had  once 
spoken  to  him  in  that  tone  ;  and  he  felt  a  great  com- 
passion for  the  frailty  of  women  welling  up  within 
him. 

"Sit  down  now  and  finish  your  coffee,"  she  con- 
tinued. 


144  Sentimental  Studies 


He  obeyed. 

"  I  don't  remember  ever  having  cried  all  about  noth- 
ing before." 

She  took  a-banana,  and  began  to  peel  it  slowly;  and 
he  carried  his  chair  round  the  table  and  sat  down  by 
her  side,  slipping  her  bare  arm  under  his  own. 

"  Dear  Midge  !     It  's  all  right  now,  is  n't  it?  " 

She  nodded,  munching  the  fruit,  and  turned  to  him 
with  a  smile  of  affectionate  happiness. 

"Come,  have  the  other  half."  And  she  held  the 
end  for  him  to  bite. 

"  We  '11  often  have  dinner  here,  I  vote.  It 's  a  jolly 
little  place, ' '  he  said,  caressing  her  hand. 

"  Is  n't  it  rather  ruinous?'" 

He  named  the  price. 

"  But  you  don't  know,  I  've  three  hundred  a  year  of 
my  own." 

"What  a  fortune!  All  your  very  own,  do  you 
mean  ?  ' ' 

"  Yes  ;  my  mother  left  it  to  me.  I  came  into  it  when 
I  was  twenty-one." 

"You  're  not  twenty-one.  Don't  talk  such  absurd 
nonsense." 

"  Yes,  I  am — twenty-two.  And  you,  how  old  are 
you?" 

"Guess." 

"Twenty?" 

"  No — more." 


Battledore  and  Shuttlecock  145 

"Twenty-one." 

"  More." 

"Twenty -two?" 

She  assented. 

"Fancy  our  being  the  same  age.  When  's  your 
birthday?" 

"The  fourteenth  of  March." 

"And  mine  's  on  the  tenth." 

"  By  Jove  !     You  're  just  four  days  older  then." 

"  Split  another  banana  with  me." 

"No,  I  could  n't  really." 

"  Do  as  you  're  told.     Obey  your  elders,  sir." 

"Very  good,  madam,"  he  retorted  in  mock  meek- 
ness. 


"  What  would  you  like  to  do  now  ?  "  he  began. 

"  Nothing.     Let 's  just  stay  here  and  talk." 

"You  wouldn't  like  to  go  to  the  Gaiety?  I've 
taken  a  box. ' ' 

"  How  extravagant  !  " 

"You've  forgotten  the  fortune.  Why,  except  to- 
night, I  don't  believe  I  've  spent  two  pounds  during 
the  last  three  weeks.  I  'm  positively  saving." 

"  How  shocking  !  But  about  that  box — it  's  awfully 
wasteful.  I  suppose  we  ought  to  go  for  a  little." 

"  No,  not  if  you  'd  rather  not.  Remember,  it  '11  cost 
a  shilling  to  get  there." 

10 


146  Sentimental  Studies 

"  If  it  comes  to  that,  I  don't  mind  standing  the  cab." 
And  they  laughed  together. 

"  I  say,  Ronald,  I  want  to  ask  you  something. 
Promise  to  answer  truthfully.  .  .  .  Well,  have  you 
ever  been  in  love  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Never  at  all  ?" 

"Never  at  all." 

"  Have  n't  you  ever  kissed  any  one?  " 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  But  you  must  have." 

"  No,  I  swear  I  have  n't." 

"I  wish  I  was  like  that,"  she  remarked  in  a  more 
sober  tone. 

Have  you  ? — been  in  love,  I  mean  .  .  .  often?" 
he  asked,  fingering  her  hand  nervously  to  hide  his  em- 
barrassment. 

She  nodded  with  gravity.  ' '  Yes,  lots  of  times.  But 
never  seriously,"  she  continued  reflectively.  "Just 
sort  of  short  likings.  Men  are  always  awfully  good  to 
me." 

He  saw  her  lips  part  in  a  faint  smile,  and  winced,  his 
pity  stung  to  incoherent  sputterings  by  a  sudden 
recollection  of  the  brutal  name  men  gave  to  her  calling. 
Unconsciously  he  let  her  hand  drop.  .  .  .  What 
had  gone  before  ?  .  .  what  was  her  tale  ?  .  .  . 
Those  others — who  were  good  to  her — what  were  they 


Battledore  and  Shuttlecock  147 

like  ?  He  drove  in  wild  parade  a  flock  of  male  faces. 
.  .  .  They  had  all  known  her  before  he  had.  .  .  . 
They  knew  her  now — she  and  they  had  common  mem- 
ories. .  .  .  They  had  made  love  to  her — kissed — 
yes,  of  course,  kissed  her — those  soft,  cool  arms.  .  .  . 
He  was  the  last — he  was  behind  them  all.  .  .  .  But 
no,  protested  his  vanity,  he  was  different — she  had  said 
so  ...  it  must  be  that  he  was  different. 
Feverishly  he  climbed  to  the  pinnacle  of  his  former 
exaltation,  giddily  forcing  himself  to  vision  her  by  his 
side,  her  white-gloved  hands  clasping  his  shoulders, 
while  he  shielded  her  from  the  yelping  pack  of  other 
men.  .  .  .  Then  he  dropped  back  into  the  turmoil 
of  perplexity.  .  .  . 

He  waited  in  suspense  for  her  to  tell  him  more,  yet 
lie   shrank  from   questioning  her,.      When,   however, 
she  spoke  again,  he  at  once  perceived  that  the  drift  of 
her  thoughts  had  altogether  changed.     And  he  could  i 
not  but  acquiesce.  \ 

"  Tell  me  what  you  do  every  day.     You  go  to  your* 
tutor's  in  the  morning  ?  " 

He  described  the  place  to  her.  She  asked  him  about 
his  evenings. 

"I  sit  and  talk  to  my  sister-in-law,  when  I've  no 
work. ' ' 

She  plied  him  with  an  abundance  of  questions  con- 
cerning Helen,  listening  to  his  replies  attentively, 
encouraging  him  to  hear  himself  talk.  Thus  the  edge 


148  Sentimental  Studies 


of  his  curiosity  concerning  her  was,  for  the  moment, 
dulled. 

He  again  mentioned  the  empty  box  at  the  theatre. 
She  declined,  and  declared  with  abrupt  decision  that 
she  must  start  for  home.  He  remonstrated,  but  she 
retorted  firmly,  and  quickly  grew  impatient  at  his  per- 
sistence, forbidding  him  to  escort  her.  He  continued 
to  repeat  his  remonstrance  ;  her  tone  became  brusquely 
imperious.  They  descended  to  the  street  in  silence. 
She  entered  a  hansom  and  said  something  to  him, 
which  he  failed  to  hear,  as  the  horses  swung  round. 
A  flock  of  cabs,  whirling  down  Oxford  Street,  engulfed 
her. 

Hardly  realising  that  she  was  gone,  he  was  left 
standing  on  the  pavement.  The  first  thing  that  he 
remembered  was  that  he  had  never  kissed  her.  .  .  ", 


VIII. 

RONAL/D   sat   amidst   the   closely  packed  figures 
that  blackened  an  omnibus  roof,  his  thoughts 
spinning   aimlessly,   like   the   fitful   columns   of    dust 
lifted  at  street  corners  by  a  gusty  breeze. 

The  conductor  demanding  his  fare,  rousing  him 
from  his  musings,  snapped  the  train  of  his  thought. 
Fumbling  in  his  pocket  for  the  coppers,  all  at  once  he 
remembered  her.  .  . 

"  She  '11  git  no  verdict." 

"  Not  she.     Why,  'ee  's  bin  bled  for  years." 

"Well,  serve  'im  right.  'Ees  a  bad  'un  any'ow. 
The  aristocracy  's  all  rotten  nowadays.  I  say  it 's 
because  they  ain't  got  to  earn  their  own  bread.  Them 
young  toffs  would  n't  be  so  free  with  their  cash  if  they 
'ad  to  sweat  for  it." 

"An*  quite  right  of  the  women  to  bleed  'em.  I^et 
'em  get  all  they  can,  I  say.  They  're  druv  to  it,  poor 
things.  Why,  I  tell  you  they  're  worth  a  damned  side 
more,  most  of  'em,  than  them  as  calls  'emselves  gentle- 
men jest  because  they  wears  top  'ats.  I'm  a  regular 

M9 


150  Sentimental  Studies 


Socialist,   I  am.     Every  man  earn  his  own  bread,  I 
say. ' ' 

Ronald  listened  with  vague  curiosity,  while  before 
the  vision  of  tangled  brown  locks,  and  the  soft  white 
dress  clinging  at  the  bust,  and  trimmed  with  gold 
braid  round  the  sleeves,  the  resolves  all  slipped  from 
his  mind. 

.  .  They  were  right,  those  men,  in  their  rough 
fashion,  he  thought.  They  looked  labourers  of  some 
kind,  with  battered  hats  and  rugged,  unfinished  sort 
of  faces.  ...  It  was  women  like  Midge  they 
meant,  women  trodden  down,  women  driven  to  it. 

.  .  .  He  likened  her  to  a  beautiful  flower  cast  to 
the  routlings  of  swine.  .  .  .  And  the  stirrings  of 
pity  sent  proud  exhilaration  bubbling  up  boisterously 
within  him  ;  his  own  attitude  towards  her  stood  out  in 
clear,  luminous  contrast. 

.  .  .  The  frost  still  held.  ...  A  team  of 
heavy  horses,  straining  at  a  waggon-load  of  casks, 
staggered  by,  banging  their  hoofs  on  the  pavement, 
while  the  driver,  all  muffled  in  sacks,  high  up  on  his 
perch,  cracked  his  whip  with  sharp  reports  over  their 
backs.  ...  A  greyish  haze  daintily  blurred  the 
clustering  swarm  of  vehicles,  creeping  like  flies  up  the 
hill  towards  the  narrow  end  of  the  straight  broad  street ; 
and  the  sun,  topping  a  bank  of  creamy  clouds,  set 
bright  specks  twinkling  on  the  harness  of  cabs  and 
the  window-panes  ablaze  with  gold.  .  .  . 


Battledore  and  Shuttlecock  151 

.  The  omnibus,  turning  the  corner,  rumbled 
down  Regent  Street.  Each  jolt  carried  him  farther 
from  Thurgate  Road.  But  he  did  not  descend,  judg- 
ing it  was  yet  too  early,  dallying  with  his  impatience 
by  means  of  a  series  of  hurried  calculations  of  time, 
watching  the  clocks,  and,  as  the  face  of  each  one 
varied,  computing  afresh  how  long  it  would  take  him 
to  reach  her  from  the  different  points  on  the  route. 
When  the  omnibus  halted  at  the  Circus  he  got  down, 
intending  to  saunter  back  the  way  he  had  come  ;  soon, 
however,  he  was  unconsciously  walking  as  fast  as  his 
legs  could  carry  him. 

An  old  woman  whom  he  had  seen  on  his  first  visit, 
was  kneeling  on  the  door-step,  some  rags  and  a  zinc 
bucket  beside  her.  The  door  stood  ajar. 

"  She 's  away,"  she  called,  as  he  came  up. 

' '  Away — out  of  London,  do  you  mean  ?  ' ' 

' '  Yes,  I  believe  so. ' '  And  she  started  to  scrub 
noisily. 

"  Where  's  she  gone  ?  "  he  asked  blankly. 

The  grating  sound  ceased. 

"Dunno,  I  'm  sure.  Wait  a  minute.  I'll  ask  Mrs. 
Wraggleston.  She  '11  know." 

She  disappeared  down  the  passage,  and  presently 
returned,  followed  by  a  younger  woman,  whom  he 
guessed  to  be  the  landlady. 

"Miss  Bashford 's  gone  to  the  country,  sir,"  she 
began  civilly. 


152  Sentimental  Studies 

' '  Where  ?  "  he  asked  again. 

"  I  'm  sure  I  can't  tell  you,  sir,  for  certain — Brigh- 
ton, I  expect." 

"You  don't  know  her  address  ?  " 

"No,  sir,  I  don't." 

"  Or  when  she '11  be  back  ?" 

"  It  's  sure  to  be  in  a  day  or  two." 

"Thanks."     He  moved  to  go. 

' '  Do  you  wish  to  leave  any  message  ?  ' ' 

"No;  good-morning,"  he  heard  himself  answering. 

A  little  way  down  the  street  he  turned  to  glance  at 
the  house.  The  two  women  still  stood  on  the  door- 
step, looking  after  him,  and  talking  to  one  another. 

He  returned  disconsolately  to  the  crammer's  and  for 
two  hours  scribbled  mechanically  in  his  note-books.  As 
the  minutes  slipped  by,  his  longing  to  see  her,  to  be 
with  her,  strengthened  in  aching  intensity.  .  .  . 
Everything  seemed  cheerless,  dreary.  .  .  .  Why  had 
she  gone  ?  .  .  .  When  would  she  be  back  ?  .  .  . 
in  a  day  or  two  .  .  .  to-morrow?  .  .  .  or 
the  next  day  ?  .  He  might  catch  a  train  down 

to  Brighton  ....  but  her  address  ?  .  .  . 
Still  he  might  meet  her  in  some  street,  on  the  Parade. 
.  .  .  What  was  the  reason  for  her  going  ?  .  .  . 
Was  she  alone  ?  .  .  .  Whom  was  she  with  ? 

The  class-room  was  darkening.  Some  one  lit  the 
gas.  Outside  he  saw  snowflakes  in  the  air. 


Battledore  and  Shuttlecock  153 

At  two  o'clock  he  went  out  to  lunch  with  the  others, 
Harbord,  Willson,  and  Dawkins.  They  talked  of  a  new 
burlesque,  and  retailed  some  of  the  jokes.  He  sat 
staring  gloomily  into  the  street. 

It  had  stopped  snowing,  but  the  fog  had  de- 
scended. The  gas-lamps  were  burning,  dismally  speck- 
ing the  monotony  of  the  mud-coloured  atmosphere, 
like  sickly  remains  of  an  unfinished  orgy.  Some 
lighted  windows  opposite  cast  squares  of  murky  red  ; 
a  sense  of  silence  and  of  desolation  prevailed,  as  if 
some  curse  had  fallen  upon  the  town. 

' '  What  '  s  the  matter,  Thorn ycroft  ?  In  the  blues, 
eh?" 

"Given  you  the  chuck,  has  she?  Cheer  up,  old 
chap.  There  are  as  good  fish  in  the  sea  as  ever  came 
out  of  it." 

The  allusion  rudely  roused  him  :  he  blurted  out  an 
oath  concerning  the  weather  to  cover  his  confusion. 

And  the  hours  of  the  afternoon  loomed  ahead  of  him, 
long  and  yellow.  .  .  . 


IX. 


IT  was  a  Saturday.  In  the  class-room  the  hours 
dragged  by  sluggishly  ;  he  tingled  with  impa- 
tience, and  his  eyes  travelled  constantly  to  the  clock. 
At  last  it  was  over.  The  men  rose,  clattering  their 
note-books.  Harbord  and  Willson  were  planning  to 
spend  the  afternoon  at  some  music-hall.  Ronald  shook 
them  off  curtly,  hailed  a  cab,  and  started  for  Thurgate 
Road. 

The  horse  lolloped  in  a  senseless  sort  of  canter,  rat- 
tling the  trace-chains  and  the  glass  overhead.  The 
streets  were  crowded  ;  at  every  instant,  it  seemed,  omni- 
buses blocked  the  way.  Near  the  top  of  Regent  Street 
a  policeman  stopped  the  traffic  while  a  string  of  stout 
ladies  crossed  the  road.  He  sat  drumming  his  fingers 
on  the  door,  convincing  himself  that  she  was  back,  and 
feverishly  anticipating  the  first  moment  of  meeting. 
In  Portland  Place  he  shouted  to  the  driver ;  and  a 
heavy  lashing  roused  the  horse  into  a  caricature  of  a 
gallop. 

From  the  doorstep  he  vacantly  observed  some 
ragged  children  dancing  to  the  tune  of  a  piano-organ 
before  a  public-house  at  the  corner.  Then  the  door 
opened. 


Battledore  and  Shuttlecock  155 

"  She  's  jest  come  back,"  said  the  old  woman. 

He  pushed  past  her,  and  stepping  over  a  bundle  of 
rugs,  brown-paper  parcels,  and  portmanteaus  strewn 
across  the  passage,  ran  up,  taking  two  stairs  at  a  time. 

The  room  was  unchanged.  There  she  was  kneeling 
on  the  hearth-rug,  holding  an  open  newspaper  against 
the  grate,  in  a  brown  dress,  a  dark  hat  and  veil ;  wear- 
ing a  stiff  collar  like  a  man's,  with  a  red  sailor's  knot 
beneath.  She  half  turned  her  head. 

"Hulloa!  it's  you.  How  did  you  know  I  was 
back  ?  I  was  just  wondering  when  I  should  see  you." 

He  came  close  to  her,  a  glow  of  warm  happiness 
rising  within  him.  The  red  tie  made  her  cheeks  look 
quite  rosy. 

"  L,et  me  help,"  he  said,  kneeling  beside  her. 
/'Thanks.     Hold  that  corner   tight   or   it'll   catch 
fire." 

Presently  he  said  simply  : 

"  It  is  jolly  to  see  you  again." 

She  smiled  at  him,  her  face  lit  up  with  pleasure. 

"  I  've  been  awfully  lonely  without  you.' 

"  What  nonsense  you  talk,  you  silly  boy  !  " 

"  But  I  have,  really.  I  came  up  here  every  day  to 
try  to  find  out  when  you'd  be  back." 

"  I  don't  believe  you  did,"  she  exclaimed  quickly. 

"Yes,  I  promise  you." 

She  was  leaning  on  her  elbow,  one  arm  still  keeping 
the  newspaper  in  its  place.  Her  disengaged  hand 


156  Sentimental  Studies 

slowly  found  its  way  across  the  hearth-rug  to  his.  At 
the  soft,  gloved  pressure,  his  gaze  turned  slowly  to 
hers. 

"  Dear  little  Midge— 

But  springing  up  of  a  sudden,  and  dragging  back 
the  paper,  she  cut  him  short. 

"I  thought  it  was  alight.  There,  that'll  burn,  I 
think.  .  .  .  Now  sit  down  and  talk  to  me." 

She  sank  into  an  arm-chair  ;  he  remained  kneeling 
on  the  hearth-rug. 

"Tell  me,"  he  said,  "about  Brighton.  Why  did 
you  go  !  " 

"  But  I  want  to  hear  all  about  you  first.  What  have 
you  been  doing  ?  ' ' 

"Nothing.  .  .  .  Going  to  my  work,  just  as 
usual.  .  .  ." 

"  Tell  me,  why  did  you  go  to  Brighton?  "  he  asked 
suddenly. 

"  I  love  the  sea.  It  was  beautiful  weather — quite 
warm  and  sunny.  I  suppose  it  was  like  that  in  town. 
We  sat  on  the  Parade ' ' 

' '  You  and  some  one  else  ? ' ' 

"  You  don't  know  him,"  she  said  shortly. 

"  Do  you  like  him  very  much  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  nodded. 

"What  a  curious  boy  you  are  !  What  funny  ques- 
tions you  do  ask  !  .  .  .  I  say,  take  me  out  to  lunch 
will  you  ?  ' ' 


Battledore  and  Shuttlecock  157 

"  Of  course.     Where  shall  we  go?  " 

She  named  a  restaurant  in  Great  Portland  Street. 
Then  : 

"  Wait  a  minute  while  I  get  an  umbrella." 

They  walked  together  through  the  streets,  dry  and 
clean  with  the  frost.  Men  stared  at  her  as  she  passed, 
and  when  he  noticed  this  he  felt  very  proud. 

Once  during  luncheon  he  reverted  hesitatingly  to 
Brighton. 

"  Don't  keep  on  bothering  about  that,"  she  retorted, 
almost  crossly. 


Afterwards  they  went  back  to  Thurgate  Road.  She 
wanted,  she  said,  to  show  him  her  two  new  dresses. 

Sitting  on  the  floor,  she  opened  the  big  card-board 
boxes,  unfolded  the  tissue-paper  with  which  they 
seemed  filled,  and  spread  the  silks  on  the  sofa. 

"This,  you  see,"  she  began,  fingering  a  soft  mass 
of  pale  pink,  "is  an  evening  one.  Princess  with  a 
Watteau  back.  Do  you  like  that?"  She  stopped, 
rippling  with  laughter. 

"Don't  look  so  horribly  puzzled!  .  .  .  You 
poor  boy,  you  don't  understand  a  bit,  now  do  you  ?  " 

"No,  I  don't  much,"  he  admitted  ruefully.  "But 
explain." 

She  declined,  still  shaking  with  mirth. 

"  But  you  think  them  nice  all  the  same?  " 


158  Sentimental  Studies 

"Lovely." 

Then  she  ran  out,  and  returned  with  a  box  of  choco- 
late creams.  He  took  one,  and  they  stood  close  to- 
gether with  the  box  between  them. 

"  Midge,"  he  began,  "  will  you  tell  me  a  little  about 
yourself?  " 

"  About  myself.     .     .     .     There 's  nothing  to  tell." 

"  Why  did  you  go  down  to  Brighton  with  that 
man  ?  ' ' 

' '  What  a  bother  you  are  !  ' ' 

' '  But  why  did  you  go  ? "  he  reiterated  obstinately. 

"  I  suppose  I  can  go  where  I  like,  can't  I  ?  I  need  n't 
ask  your  leave  first.  Since  you  're  dead  keen  on  know- 
ing— well,  I  went  because  I  was  hard  up. — There  !  " 

She  caught  a  little  at  her  breath,  and  her  face  was 
flaming. 

"  Now  are  you  satisfied  ?  "    she  concluded  bitterly. 

"  But  why  did  n't  you  tell  me  ?  .  .  .1  would  have 
given  you  as  much  money  as  you  wanted.". 

He  spoke  very  quietly. 

"I  don't  want  your  money.  ...  I  wouldn't 
take  it." 

Her  voice  trembled  ;  he  thought  she  was  going  to 
cry.  Looking  down,  however,  her  eyes  fell  on  the 
chocolate-box,  and  she  laughed  again  through  her 
tears.  Then  her  face  clouded  again  ;  she  recoiled 
quickly,  as  he  tried  to  put  his  arm  round  her. 

"But,  Midge     .     .     .     dear  Midge " 


Battledore  and  Shuttlecock  159 

"  Don't,"  she  muttered,  as  if  in  sudden  pain.  "  Don't 
spoil  things.  How  stupid  you  are  !  Can't  you  under- 
stand a  bit  ?  ' ' 

Behind  the  houses  opposite  the  sun  was  sinking 
sullenly,  against  a  cold,  opaque-grey  sky,  spattered 
with  black  fragments  of  cloud.  It  seemed  as  if  the 
twilight  had  come  all  at  once. 

"  Come,  Ron,"  she  said  gently,  "  don't  let 's  squab- 
ble. Come  and  sit  by  the  fire.  I  want  to  tell  you 
some  things." 

He  sat  astride  of  the  arm  of  her  chair,  his  hand 
caressing  her  hair.  After  waiting  a  moment  for  her 
to  speak,  he  said  : 

"  Midge,  I  did  n't  know,  I  did  n't  understand  till  just 
now.  I  've  never  cared  for  any  one  before.  I  've 
hardly  stopped  thinking  about  you  since  the  first  time 
I  saw  you."  The  words  came  out  clumsily  ;  the  last 
phrase,  as  soon  as  he  had  spoken  it,  he  remembered 
having  read  in  some  novel. 

She  took  his  hand  in  hers  silently. 

"  Midge,  will  you  let  me  love  you  ?  I  love  you  better 
than  everything  else  in  the  world.  Somehow  I  've  got 
to  understand  things  a  lot  better  just  lately.  It 's  no 
good  my  going  into  the  army.  We  '11  get  married  and 
go  away  to  the  colonies." 

She  lifted  his  hand  to,  her  lips.  The  next  moment 
his  arms  were  around  her  ;  he  was  passionately  kissing 
her  neck. 


160  Sentimental  Studies 


' '  Say  you  love  me  back  a  little, ' '  he  whispered. 

"Yes,  dear,  dear  boy.  I've  never  been  so  happy 
before. ' ' 

"  And  we  '11  belong  to  each  other  for  always  ?  " 

With  a  quick  excited  laugh  she  answered  : 

"  I  'm  married,  }'ou  know." 

"Married!" 

"  I  ran  away  from  him,"  she  continued.  "  He  was 
a  brute.  He  beat  me." 

"  What 's  his  name  ?  " 

"Keith.     He's  an  actor." 

"But  can't  you  get  a  divorce?  " 

"He  could.  But  he's  gone  to  America.  That's 
why  I  ran  away  from  him.  I  was  afraid  to  go  with 
him." 

"  How  long  ago  was  it  ?  " 

' '  Nearly  a  year.  I  was  only  married  to  him  six 
weeks.  A  friend  of  his — Ethel  Stainer,  a  sort  of  ac- 
tress— helped  me  to  get  away.  He  suspected  it,  I  've 
always  thought.  He  would  n't  let  me  out  of  his  sight. 
It  was  the  evening  before  the  ship  sailed  that  I  escaped. ' ' 

"  Won't  he  come  back  ?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"  Have  n't  you  heard  anything  of  him  ?  " 

"  No,  nothing.  Ethel  Stainer  said  she  would  try  to 
find  out  about  him  for  me,  but  I  didn't  want  her  to. 
You  must  n't  be  jealous  of  the  others.  They  've  been 
downright  good  friends  to  me." 


Battledore  and  Shuttlecock  161 


So  they  sat  on  in  the  growing  darkness,  and  she  told 
him  the  whole  story  of  her  life.  And  it  seemed  to  him 
horribly,  infinitely  pathetic,  so  that  when  she  had 
finished  he  felt  that  he  was  bound  to  her  irrevocably, 
whatever  might  happen. 

"  Well,  that 's  about  the  lot,"  she  exclaimed  after  a 
pause,  with  an  abrupt  hardening  of  tone.  "What  do 
you  think  of  me  ?  ' ' 

"I  love  you  just  the  same,  more  than  ever.  Poor 
Midge,  I  am  so  sorry.  But  I  '11  make  you  happier  in 
the  future." 

' '  But  I  'm  not  down  on  my  luck  at  all.  He  made  me 
feel  very  miserable — lots  of  things  which  you  would  n't 
understand.  But  I  've  been  quite  happy  since." 

"Midge." 

"Don't  call  me  that  name.  Every  one  calls  me 
that.  My  proper  name  is  Nita.  Now  promise  you  '11 
give  up  all  those  mad  ideas.  I  'm  all  right;  don't 
you  get  excited  about  me.  Promise  me  you  '11  go  on 
working  very  hard.  The  army  's  your  profession. 
How  funny  it  seems  to  me  talking  to  you  like  this." 

"  But " 

"Now,  no  buts.  Remember  you're  only  a  boy: 
I  'm  a  full-grown  woman." 

"  Won't  you  let  me  speak  ?  " 

"I  '11  not  let  you  say  anything — at  least  not  now. 
Good-bye."  There  was  a  note  of  command  in  her 

voice  ;  he  felt  he  must  obey, 
ii 


162  Sentimental  Studies 


"  May  n't  I  see  you  to-morrow  ?  " 

' '  Yes,  dear, ' '  she  answered  gently.  ' '  Come  in  the 
afternoon.  I  '11  buy  a  cake  and  get  them  to  make  some 
tea.  That  '11  be  great  fun,  won't  it?  And  now,  I  'm 
going  to  send  you  home.  Your  people  '11  be  wonder- 
ing what  's  become  of  you." 

With  a  new  joy  in  doing  exactly  as  she  bid  him  he 
took  her  hand — then  went. 


X. 


BENEATH  a  clear  sun  the  frost  had  melted  ;  and 
of  a  sudden,  as  it  were,  the  days  grew  glittering 
and  altogether  warm.  It  was  with  a  subtle,  indefina- 
ble gladness  that  Midge  anticipated  the  coming  of 
spring,  and  there  were  moments  when,  at  the  sight 
of  the  light  glancing  prettily  in  the  street,  she  would 
smile  faintly  to  herself,  for  no  reason,  from  sheer  sun- 
niness  of  heart. 

She  saw  scarcely  any  one  but  Ronald  now  ;  and 
every  day  he  appeared  at  odd,  unexpected  moments. 
She  liked  that  it  should  be  so,  for  then  each  day  the 
thrill  of  expectancy  was  renewed.  She  took  to  dress- 
ing early  in  the  hope  that  he  would  look  in  for  ten 
minutes  in  the  morning  on  his  way  to  work  ;  she 
waited  for  him  at  tea-time,  or  later,  in  case  he  should 
come  to  take  her  out  to  dinner.  She  found  a  childish 
delight  in  awaiting  him  ;  living  entirely  in  the  pres- 
ent, she  thoughtlessly  accepted  the  chastity  of  their 
relations  as  irrevocable.  Thus  her  sentiment  for  him 
floated  on  from  day  to  day  in  heedless  security,  and 
sometimes  she  mused  indolently  concerning  the  past, 
wondering  whether  certain  memories  had  not  after  all 

been  left  her  by  dreams. 

163 


164  Sentimental  Studies 

One  afternoon  they  went  together  by  train  into  the 
country.  They  wandered  from  the  station  into  a 
beech-wood  near  the  line,  and  sat  down  on  the  clean 
.slab  left  by  a -freshly  felled  tree.  After  the  roar  of 
lyondon — the  thronged  streets,  the  rush  of  cabs,  the 
rattle  of  vans  and  omnibuses — the  stillness  of  the 
beech-wood  pervaded  her  intimately.  She  forgot 
Ronald,  who  lay  smoking  a  cigarette  beside  her  ;  she 
felt  she  would  be  content  to  remain  there  for  hours  and 
hours,  doing  nothing,  thinking  of  nothing,  remember- 
ing nothing.  The  sparkling  floor,  all  speckled  by  the 
sunlight,  was  thickly  carpeted  with  brown  leaves,  one 
of  which,  every  now  and  again,  would  rise  to  flutter 
uneasily  at  her  feet.  Here  and  there  a  bush,  decked 
in  infant  greenery,  shamed  the  rest,  still  shivering 
in  the  dead  garb  of  winter.  Huge  trees  lifted  like 
pillars  their  smooth,  green  trunks ;  and  beyond, 
through  a  crowd  of  straight,  slim  stems,  she  could 
discern  the  steely  gleam  of  a  river,  banding  the 
meadows. 

Ronald's  smoke  blew  in  her  face;  she  shifted  her 
position. 

The  swelling  undulations  of  the  earth,  coated  in  a 
great  patchwork  of  grey  and  brown  and  rank  green, 
carried  a  crest  of  ruddy  wood,  broken  at  last  by  a 
bunch  of  fruit  trees,  powdered  from  head  to  foot  with 
snow-white  blossom.  Faint  cries — whether  of  birds  or 


Battledore  and  Shuttlecock  165 

of  men  she  could  not  tell — wandered  up  from  the  dis- 
tance. 

And  when  they  were  back  in  London,  a  dull  sadness 
crept  over  her — a  dissatisfaction,  a  dislike  of  the  sight 
of  streets,  and  a  vague  longing  for  home.  .  .  . 


XI. 


A  TREACHEROUS,  unmanageable  wind,  scream- 
ing as  it  rushed  past,  filled  the  night.  The  rain 
fled  before  it,  helter-skelter  ;  and  ragged  glimmers  of 
gold  danced  across  the  wet  pavement.  The  vague  mass 
of  a  group  of  people  darkened  the  steps  before  the  en- 
trance-hall of  the  Star  and  Garter  ;  by  the  road-edge  a 
double  phaeton,  the  horses  plunging  between  the  bars 
of  light  from  the  carriage  lamps. 

A  crash  !  then  a  shout. 

' '  Woa  !  yer  damned  fool — stand  steady,  will  yer  ! 
Here,  a  light — he's  caught  the  splinter-bar." 

A  lantern  moved  out  of  the  crowd,  illuminating  the 
horses'  flanks. 

"Steady,  boy,  steady.  He's  just  nicked  hi'self. 
The  bar 's  right  enough. ' '  And  the  man  tested  it  vigor- 
ously. 

"  Tell  the  gentleman  to  'urry  up,"  called  the  ostler. 
"The  'orses  is  jest  pullin'  my  arms  off." 

At  that  moment  the  doorway  swung  open  and  Ron- 
ald appeared.  The  hard,  white  electric  light  struck  his 
face,  as  he  leisurely  buttoned  his  gloves,  his  hat  aslant 

on  his  head, 

166 


Battledore  and  Shuttlecock  167 

"It's  raining,  isn't  it?"  said  Midge,  coming  up 
behind  him. 

"  Yes,  beastly  night." 

"Mr.  Thornycroft,  sir,"  cried  a  waiter,  running  up 
the  steps  towards  them,  and  speaking  excitedly.  "  Be 
advised,  sir.  Don't  try  to  take  them  horses  back  to 
London  to-night.  It  ain't  safe  ;  it  ain't  indeed,  sir." 

Ronald  threw  a  quick  glance  at  the  people  on  the 
steps. 

"Here,  get  me  a  cigar — a  large  Habana,"  he  an- 
swered, raising  his  voice. 

"  Can't  you  persuade  him,  miss  ?  The  ostler  says  he 
knows  you  can't  get  home  to-night.  They  ain't  fit  to 
be  in  harness,  them  animals." 

A  boy  in  buttons  brought  some  cigars  on  a  plate. 

"  Have  a  hansom,  Midge?  "  said  Ronald,  laconically, 
as  he  chose  one. 

"  Come,  be  quick,"  she  retorted  sharply. 

They  descended  the  steps,  and  the  people  moved  aside 
to  let  them  pass. 

"The)' '11  smash  up  before  they're  through  the 
town,"  said  a  voice. 

"It's  madness — and  the  girl  too." 

"She's  no  business  to  go.  Can't  some  one  stop 
her?" 

Ronald  had  swung  himself  on  to  the  box. 

Midge  turned  to  the  crowd. 

"  Well,  won't  any  of  you  help  me  up?  " 


1 68  Sentimental  Studies 


Half-a-dozen  figures  started  forward  ;  in  an  instant 
she  was  strapping  the  apron  round  her. 

"Why  doesn't  some  one  stop  them?"  repeated  a 
voice. 

"  There 's  a  spare  seat  behind,  if  the  gentleman's  in 
a  hurry  to  be  home,"  Midge  called  back. 

"  Let  'em  go,"  shouted  Ronald. 

The  off  horse  plunged  again,  struggling  to  rear. 
Ronald  let  the  reins  drop  loose,  and  cut  him  heavily 
with  the  whip.  The  animal  banged  against  the  collar, 
and  the  pair  broke  into  a  gallop  down  the  hill. 

Ronald  rammed  the  brake  home,  and  they  steadied  a 
bit  when  they  reached  the  bottom. 

' '  You '  re  quite  sober  ? ' '  asked  Midge,  as  they  clat- 
tered through  the  town. 

"  It  '11  be  all  right  when  we  get  outside." 

"  I  say,  chuck  away  that  cigar." 

"  Catch  hold  of  it,  will  you  ?  " 

He  lowered  his  head,  and  she  took  it  from  between 
his  teeth.  It  hit  the  road  with  a  shower  of  sparks. 

"  Mind  the  'bus.  It's  going  to  start — I  heard  the 
bell.  Keep  outside,  for  God's  sake  !  " 

He  twisted  the  rein  round  his  wrist  by  the  buckle, 
and  with  a  steady  wrench  from  the  shoulder  hauled  the 
horses  on  to  their  haunches.  Her  grip  was  on  his  arm 
—so  tight  that  he  almost  cried  out. 

Then  they  swung  round  the  corner. 


Battledore  and  Shuttlecock  169 

Midge  clutched  her  hat ;  the  wind  caught  them. 
' '  This  is  lovely, ' '  she  broke  out. 

Ronald  did  not  answer.  The  near  horse  was  trying 
to  stop,  frightened  at  something  black  by  the  roadside. 
With  a  rush  he  sprang  past  it,  banging  his  belly  against 
the  pole,  and  away  they  whirled  down  the  colonnade  of 
lamp  posts. 

"  I  think  this  is  splendid — dashing  through  the  night, 
with  the  wind  and  the  rain.  I  should  n't  mind  a  scrap 
if  we  were  to  smash  up.  I  'd  rather  like  to  be  killed 
with  you,  Ron,"  she  laughed  nervously. 

"  The  fool  's  been  and  put  them  on  the  cheek." 

Still  galloping,  they  shot  past  a  jogging  pony-cart. 

"You  do  drive  splendidly,"  she  exclaimed  presently. 

They  were  on  Barnes  Common. 

As  they  neared  the  railway-bridge,  he  slackened  the 
reins,  and  the  phaeton  rocked  more  heavily,  as  they 
mounted  the  hill  at  top  speed. 

"  The  bay's  getting  done." 

Down  past  the  silent  rows  of  square  villas,  they  rat- 
tled over  the  river  into  L,ondon,  the  horses  shaking  the 
whole  bridge  with  their  stamping.  The  streets  swarmed 
with  a  crowd  of  umbrellas,  which  overflowed  on  either 
side  of  the  roadway. 

"  Lucky  it  's  Sunday.     Bother  these  'busses." 

"  Ronald." 

"Well?" 


i  70  Sentimental  Studies 


"  Does  any  one— does  your  sister-in-law  know — sus- 
pect— me  ? ' ' 

"  That  I  took  you  out  to  dinner?     No." 

"  I  don't  mean  that,  but — oh  !  mind  that  child  !" 

He  shouted,  and  the  child  scuttled  back. 

' '  That  we  love  each  other,  I  mean  ?  ' ' 

"  I  don't  see  what  it  's  got  to  do  with  any  one." 

"Ron " 

"Yes." 

"  What  do  you  think  they  '11  do  when  they  find  out  ? 
They  must  find  out  soon — your  relations,  I  mean." 

' '  You  are  a  funny  child,  Midge.  What  on  earth  are 
you  driving  at  ?  " 

"  Because  I  'd  hate  for  them  to  know  about  me  and 
to  come  between  us,  that  's  all." 

He  noticed  the  hardness  of  her  tone,  and,  embar- 
rassed, flicked  the  whip  to  and  fro. 

"  This  will  do.  Stop,  please.  I  '11  take  a  hansom 
from  here. ' ' 

Mechanically  he  pulled  the  horses  to  a  standstill. 
Almost  before  he  had  turned  to  give  her  his  hand,  she 
was  in  the  roadway. 

"Good-bye,  Ron,"  and  she  stepped  into  a  passing 
hansom. 

Absently,  for  a  while,  he  followed  the  red  specks  of 
the  cab-lamps. 

Piccadilly  looked  dark  and  dreary  ;  across  St.  James's 


Battledore  and  Shuttlecock  171 


Park,  he  could  see  the  pattern  of  some  lighted  windows 
high  up  against  the  sky.  How  tall  those  houses  were, 
he  thought,  as  he  turned  down  a  side  street  towards 
the  stable.  A  sudden  jolt  brought  him  to  his  senses  : 
he  had  driven  over  the  kerb. 


XII. 

THE  next  night  saw  the  end  of  it — an  end,  sudden 
and  unexpected  as  the  beginning  had  been. 
He  had  not  seen  her  all  day,  and  in  the  evening  he  had 
been  dining  out.  It  was  dark  in  the  hall,  when  he  let 
himself  in  ;  the  servants  had  gone  to  bed.  He  lit  a 
candle,  the  match  striking  noisily  in  the  stillness  of  the 
house.  An  envelope,  addressed  to  him,  lay  on  the 
table,  and  he  went  into  the  dining-room  to  read  it. 

"  DEAR  RONALD, 

"  I  did  enjoy  it  so  yesterday.  It  was  jolly,  the  dark 
night,  and  the  galloping  horses,  and  the  rain  blowing 
in  one's  face.  After  I  got  home  I  stayed  a  long  while 
thinking  about  it  all,  and  sort  of  mooning  about  you 
and  everything.  And  I  don't  know  why,  but  I  began 
to  feel  quite  old  and  sensible,  and  all  my  silly  feather- 
brainedness  went  away.  It  was  awfully  strange  and 
queer,  Ronald,  and  I  don't  believe  you  '11  understand 
a  bit.  It  came  to  me  quite  suddenly  that  it  could  never 
go  on  like  that.  It  could  n't  really.  It  was  too  nice 
and  jolly.  Something  would  have  happened.  I  feel 
quite  sure  of  it.  So,  as  I  said,  quite  suddenly  I  made 

up  my  mind  to  go  back  home.     I  'd  been  meaning  to 

172 


Battledore  and  Shuttlecock  I  73 

do  so  for  a  long  while.  Do  you  remember  I  told  you 
I  was  going  that  first  time  yon  spoke  to  me  ?  I  can' t 
explain  why  I  made  up  my  mind  suddenly  like  that — 
and  perhaps  you  '11  think  me  quite  heartless.  I  should 
be  very  sorry  for  you  to  think  of  me  like  that.  But  I 
can't  help  it  if  you  do,  because  I  am  quite  certain  I  'm 
doing  what  's  best.  As  I  have  said,  I  've  been  intend- 
ing to  go  for  a  long  while,  and  if  I  had  n't  met  you  I 
should  have  gone  before  this.  No  one  down  there 
knows  anything  about  what  I  've  been  doing  in  Lon- 
don, and  father  's  getting  very  old,  and  he  's  all  alone 
now.  I  shall  live  with  him,  and  become  very  good  and 
steady. 

"  Now  I  want  you,  dear  Ronald — you  've  been  very, 
very  good  to  me — I  want  you  to  promise  me  one  thing. 
Never,  never  to  try  to  find  out  where  I  *ve  gone,  and  never 
to  come  down  after  me.  You  will  promise  me  this, 
won't  you,  Ronald,  for  the  sake  of  all  the  jolly  times 
we  've  had  together  ?  Yes,  I  know  you  will,  and  I 
shall  trust  you. 

"So  now  I  shall  say  good-bye,  and  wish  you  all 
good  luck.  You  've  been  a  dear,  dear,  good,  true 
friend  to  me,  and  I  shall  never,  never  forget  you. 

Good-bye,  once  again. 

"NlTA." 

The  fire  was  dead  ;  only  cold  cinders  lay  in  the  grate. 
But  he  did  not  notice  the  chilliness  of  the  room,  but  for 
a  long  while  remained  there,  staring  stupidly  at  the 


174  Sentimental  Studies 


letter,  as  he  was,  in  his  hat,  overcoat,  and  gloves.  The 
door  stood  ajar,  and  the  almond-shaped  flame  of  the 
candle,  orange-coloured  at  the  tip,  flickered  fitfully  in 
the  draught.  ...  A  clock  sounded  a  single  timid 
note.  He  started,  crumpled  the  letter  in  his  pocket, 
and  went  briskly  up-stairs,  as  if  he  had  come  to  some 
satisfactory  decision. 

A  streak  of  light  lay  under  Helen's  door;  as  he 
crossed  the  landing,  it  opened. 

"Come  in  a  moment,  Ron,"  said  her  voice.  "I 
have  n't  seen  you  since  the  morning.  Did  you  have  a 
pleasant  evening  ?  ' ' 

He  had  never  before  seen  the  inside  of  her  room. 
The  dainty  refinement  of  each  intimate  detail  struck 
him.  How  orderly  everything  was  !  The  glistening, 
silver-backed  brushes,  ranged  on  the  toilet-table ;  the 
white-panelled  wardrobes,  their  edges  picked  out  in 
gold  ;  the  bright-blue  bed-curtains  ;  the  warm,  terra- 
cotta walls.  A  fire  was  cosily  blazing,  throwing  a 
vague  dance  of  shadows  across  the  ceiling.  And  she 
looked  white  and  fragile,  in  a  loose  dress  that  seemed 
all  lace.  Irresistibty,  he  compared  her  in  his  mind  to 
Midge.  How  curiously  different  they  were  !  .  .  . 

"  What 's  the  matter  ?  "  she  asked  in  a  startled  voice. 

"  Nothing  's  the  matter,"  he  answered  shortly. 

"  But  there  is.  ...  I  can  see  it  in  your  face.  I 
can  see  you  've  got  something  on  your  mind." 

"  No  ;  I  'm  all  right.     Don't  you  worry  about  me." 


Battledore  and  Shuttlecock  1 75 

"What  is  it?"  she  persisted.  "Is  it  the  examina- 
tion? Don't  you  think  you  '11  get  through  ?  " 

He  made  an  impatient  sign  of  dissent. 

"Ron,  don't  shut  yourself  up  from  me.  Tell  me 
your  difficulties.  .  .  .  Let  me  help  you.  .  .  . 
I  'tn  sure  I  could,  whatever  they  are.  .  .  .  Much 
more  than  you  think." 

The  strained  note  of  her  pleading  startled  him.  How 
excited  she  was  all  of  a  sudden  !  She  stood  waiting 
for  him  to  speak.  He  wished  she  would  sit  down,  and 
not  gaze  at  him  like  that.  He  felt  goaded  to  say  some- 
thing. 

"  I  think  I  shall  give  up  the  idea  of  the  army,"  he 
muttered  half  to  himself. 

' '  Give  it  up  !  .  .  .  Give  it  up  !  .  .  .  Why  ?  ' ' 
she  asked  in  blank  astonishment. 

"The  army  's  rot  nowadays.  I  can't  get  into  a 
really  good  regiment  as  it  is,  and  I  should  be  only 
cooped  up  in  some  poky  country  town." 

"  But  you  used  to  be  so  enthusiastic  about  it  all." 

"No,  I  only  fancied  I  was.  ...  I  shall  go  out 
to  the  colonies — to  New  Zealand,  or  somewhere.  ..." 

"Ronald!" 

There  was  a  silence.  The  gasp  of  her  exclamation 
seemed  to  linger  in  the  air. 

"  Since  when  have  you  had  these  ideas?  " 

"Just  lately." 

' '  And  you  really  mean  them  ?  ' ' 


176  Sentimental  Studies 

"Yes." 

There  was  another  pause.  He  got  up  and  stood  by 
the  mantelpiece,  fidgeting  with  some  china  ornaments, 
apprehensively  tempted  to  tell  her.  .  .  .  He  must 
tell  somebody.  .  .  .  And  led  by  her  question,  and 
his  reply  to  it,  to  believe  in  the  firmness  of  his  decision 
to  sacrifice  his  career  in  order  to  marry  her,  he  was 
nervously  proud  of  its  importance. 

"  But  I  don't  understand.  .  .  .  What  has  made 
you  change  like  this  ?  ' ' 

He  continued  to  fidget  with  the  ornaments. 

"  There  must  be  some  reason.  .  .  .  Why  won't 
you  trust  me?  Don't  keep  me  in  the  dark  like  this.  .  . 
It  is  n't  right  of  you.  .  .  .  It 's  unkind.  .  .  . 
Don't  you  trust  me  ?  "  she  repeated,  catching  a  glimpse 
of  his  irresolution.  "Tell  me  what's  made  you 
change?" 

"Nothing.     .     .     .     Nothing 's  made  me  change." 

Her  features  stiffened  slowly,  and  he  felt  angrity  un- 
comfortable because  he  could  not  help  paining  her. 
He  turned  a  little  vase  round  and  round  in  the  palm 
of  his  hand.  The  silence  was  becoming  intolerable. 

At  last  he  spoke,  ostentatiously  replacing  the  vase, 
and  forcing  himself  to  simulate  indifference. 

"  By  Jove  !  "  it 's  half-past  twelve.  I  must  be  going 
to  bed.  Good-night.  .  .  .  Good-night,  Helen." 

"  Good-night,"  she  answered  mechanically. 


Battledore  and  Shuttlecock  177 

He  had  reached  the  door,  but  there  the  impulse  to 
speak  gently  to  her  fought  for  release. 

"  Helen —  "  he  began. 

"  Good-night,"  she  repeated  dully  as  before. 

She  sat  listening  to  his  footsteps  ascending  the  stairs. 
His  door  closed,  and  she  heard  his  tread  overhead. 
After  a  while,  all  sound  ceased.  .  .  . 


XIII. 

TWELVE  years  later,  on  his  return  from  India, 
he  met  Midge  again. 

It  was  a  frosty  October  evening  in  a  stable-yard  at 
Huntingdon.  He  was  on  his  way  to  a  country  house 
in  the  neighbourhood,  and  had  come  to  hire  a  horse  and 
trap.  Her  husband  kept  the  yard,  and  she  was  the 
mother  of  three  chubby-cheeked  girls.  It  was  late : 
the  men  had  all  gone  to  bed,  so  she  held  the  lantern, 
while  her  husband  harnessed  the  mare. 

She  knew  him  at  once  ;  but  because  of  her  husband, 
refrained  from  betraying  it.  And  he  just  glanced  care- 
lessly at  her  and  never  recognised  her. 

Then  he  climbed  up  beside  her  husband,  and  the 
trap  rattled  out  of  the  yard. 


178 


IN    CUMBERLAND. 


A  PHANTOM  regiment  of  giant  mist-pillars  swept 
silently  across  the  valley  ;  beaded  drops  loaded 
each,  tuft  of  coarse,  dull-tinted  grass  ;  the  peat-hags 
gaped  like  black,  dripping  flesh-wounds  in  the  earth's 
side  ;  the  distance  suggested  rectangular  fields  and 
wooded  slopes — vague,  grey,  phantasmagoric;  and 
down  over  everything  floated  the  damp  of  fine  rain. 

Alec's  heavy  tread  crunched  the  turfed  bridle-path 
rhythmically,  and  from  the  stiff  rim  of  his  clerical  hat 
the  water  dribbled  on  to  his  shoulders. 

It  was  a  rugged,  irregular,  almost  uncouth  face,  and 
now  the  features  were  vacantly  huddled  in  a  set  ex- 
pression, obviously  habitual.  The  cheeks  were  hunched 
up,  almost  concealing  the  small  eyes  ;  a  wet  wisp  of 
hair  straggled  over  the  puckered  forehead,  and  the 
ragged,  fair  moustache  was  spangled  by  the  rain.  • 

At  his  approach  the  sheep  scampered  up  the  fell-side  ; 
then,  stood  staring  through  the  mist  in  anxious 
stupidity.  And  Alec,  shaking  the  water  from  his  hat, 
strode  forward  with  an  almost  imperceptible  gleam  on 
his  face.  It  was  so  that  he  liked  the  valley — all  colour- 


180  Sentimental  Studies 


less  and  blurred,  with  the  sky  close  overhead,  like  a 
low,  leaden  ceiling. 

By-and-bye,  a  cluster  of  cottages  loomed  ahead — a 
choppy  pool  of  black  slate  roofs,  wanly  a-glimmer  in 
the  wet.  As  he  entered  the  village,  a  group  of  hard- 
featured  men  threw  him  a  curt  chorus  of  greetings,  to 
which  he  raised  his  stick  in  response,  mechanically. 

He  mounted  the  hill.  Three  furnace  chimne3^s  craned 
their  necks  to  grime  the  sky  with  a  dribbling,  smoky 
breath  ;  high  on  a  bank  of  coal-dust,  blurred  silhou- 
ettes of  trucks  stood  waiting  in  forlorn  strings  ;  women, 
limp,  with  unkempt  hair,  and  loose,  bedraggled  skirts, 
stood  round  the  doorways  in  gossiping  groups. 

"Which  is  Mrs.  Matheson's?"  he  stopped  to  ask. 

"There — oop  there.  Mr.  Burkett — by  yon  ash — 
where  them  childer's  standin',"  they  answered,  all 
speaking  together,  eagerly.  "  L,ook  ye  !  that  be  Mrs. 
Matheson  herself." 

Alec  went  up  to  the  woman.  His  face  clouded  a 
little,  and  the  puffs  from  his  pipe  came  briskly  in  rapid 
succession. 

"  Mrs.  Matheson,  I  've  only  just  heard Tell  me, 

how  did  it  happen  ?  "  he  asked  gently. 

She  was  a  stout,  red-faced  woman,  and  her  eyes  were 
all  bloodshot  with  much  crying.  She  wiped  them 
hastily  with  the  corner  of  her  apron  before  answering. 

"It  was  there,  Mr.  Burkett,  by  them  rails.  He 
was  jest  playin'  aboot  in  t'  road  wi'  Ann8011'8  childer. 


In  Cumberland  181 


At  half-past  one,  t'  grandmoother  stepped  across  to 
fetch  me  a  jug  o'  fresh  water  an'  she  see'd  him  settin' 
in  door  there.  Then — mabbee  twenty  minutes  later — 
t'  rain  coome  on  an'  I  thought  to  go  to  fetch  him  in. 
But  I  could  na  see  na  sign  of  him  anywhere.  We 
looked  oop  and  doon  and  thought,  mabbee,  he  'd  tod- 
dled roond  to  t'  back.  An'  then,  all  at  once,  Dan 
Arnison  called  to  us  that  he  was  leein'  in  t'  water, 
doon  in  beck-pool.  An'  Dan  ran  straight  doon,  an' 
carried  him  oop  tome;  but  'twas  na  use.  He  was 
quite  cold  and  drownded.  An'  I  went —  But  the 

sobs,  rising  thickly,  swallowed  the  rest. 

Alec  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder  soothingly. 

"  Ay,  I  know'd  ye  'd  be  grieved,  Mr.  Burkett.  He 
was  the  bonniest  boy  in  all  t'  parish." 

She  lifted  the  apron  to  her  eyes  again,  while  he 
crossed  to  the  railings.  The  wood  of  the  posts  was 
splintered  and  worm-eaten,  and  the  lower  rail  was 
broken  away.  Below,  the  rock  shelved  down  some 
fifteen  feet  to  the  beck-pool,  black  and  oily-looking. 

"It's  a  very  dangerous  place,"  he  said,  half  to 
himself. 

"Ay,  Mr.  Burkett,  you're  right,"  interrupted  a 
bent  and  wizened  old  woman,  tottering  forward. 

"This  be  grandmoother.  Mr.  Burkett,"  Mrs.  Ma- 
theson  explained.  "  'T  was  grandmoother  that  see'd 
him  last — 

"Ay,    Mr.   Burkett,"   the  old  woman   began  in  a 


1 82  Sentimental  Studies 


high,  tremulous  treble  ;  "When  I  went  fer  to  fill  t' 
jug  fer  Maggie  he  was  a-settin'  on  t'  steps  there  playin' 
with  t'  kitten,  an'  he  called  after  me,  '  Nanny  ! '  quite 
happy-like  ;  but  I  took  na  notice,  but  jest  went  on  fer 
t'  water.  I  shawed  Mr.  Allison  the  broken  rail  last 
month,  when  he  was  gittin'  t'  rents,  and  I  told  him  he 
ought  to  put  it  into  repair,  with  all  them  wee  childer 
playin'  all  da3rtime  on  t'  road.  Did  n't  I,  Maggie?" 
Mrs.  Matheson  assented  incoherently.  "  An'  he  was 
very  civil-like,  was  Mr.  Allison,  and  he  said  he  'd  hev' 
it  seen  to.  It  's  alus  that  way,  Mr.  Burkett,"  the  old 
woman  concluded,  shaking  her  head  wisely.  "  Folks 
wait  till  some  accident  occurs,  and  then  they  think  to 
bestir  themselves." 

Alec  turned  to  the  mother,  aud  touched  her  thick, 
nerveless  hand. 

"There,  there,  Mrs.  Matheson,  don't  take  on  so," 
he  said. 

At  his  touch  her  sobbing  suddenly  ceased,  and  she 
let  her  apron  fall. 

"  Will  ye  na  coome  inside,  Mr.  Burkett  ? "  she  asked. 

And  they  all  three  went  in  together. 

The  little  room  had  been  scrubbed  and  tidied,  and 
a  number  of  chairs,  ranged  round  the  table,  blocked 
the  floor. 

"  We  've  been  busy  all  marnin',  gittin'  things  a  bit 
smartened  oop  for  t'  inquest.  T'  coroner  's  cooming  at 
twelve,"  the  grandmother  explained. 


In  Cumberland  183 

"  Will  ye  coome  oop-stairs,  Mr.  Burkett — jest — jest 
to  tak'  a  look  at  him?"  Mrs.  Matheson  asked  in  a 
subdued  voice. 

Alec  followed  her,  squeezing  his  burly  frame  up  the 
narrow,  creaking  staircase. 

The  child  la)'  on  the  clean,  white  bed.  A  look  of 
still  serenity  slept  on  his  pallid  face.  His  tawny  curls 
were  smoothed  back,  and  some  snowdrops  were  scat- 
tered over  the  coverlet.  All  was  quite  simple. 

Mrs.  Matheson  stood  in  the  doorway,  struggling 
noisily  with  her  sobs. 

"  It  is  God's  will,"  Alec  said  quietly. 

"  He  was  turned  four  last  week,"  she  blurted  out. 
"  Ye  '11  excuse  me,  Mr.  Burkett,  but  I'm  that  over- 
done that  I  jest  canna  help  myself,"  and  she  sank  into 
a  chair. 

He  knelt  by  the  dead  child's  side  and  prayed,  while 
the  slow  rise  and  fall  of  the  mother's  sobs  filled  the 
room.  When  he  rose  his  eyes  were  all  moist. 

"  God  will  help  you,  if  you  ask  Him.  His  ways  are 
secret.  We  cannot  understand  His  purpose.  But  have 
faith  in  Him.  He  has  done  it  for  the  best,"  he  said. 

"  Ay,  I  know,  I  know,  Mr.  Burkett.  But  ye  see  he 
was  the  youngest,  and  that  bonny — 

"  Let  me  try  to  comfort  you,"  he  said. 

When  they  came  down-stairs  again,  her  face  was 
calmer  and  her  voice  steadier.  The  coroner,  a  dapper 


184  Sentimental  Studies 

man  with  a  bright-red  tie,  was  taking  off  his  gloves 
and  mackintosh  ;  the  room  was  fast  filling  with  silent 
figures,  and  the  old  grandmother  was  hobbling  to  and 
fro  with  noisy,  excited  importance. 

' '  Will  ye  na  stay  for  t'  inquest  ? ' ' 

Alec  shook  his  head.  "No,  I  can't  stop  now.  I 
have  a  School-board  meeting  to  go  to.  But  I  will 
come  up  this  afternoon." 

"  Thank  'ee,  Mr.  Burkett,  God  bless  thee,"  said 
Mrs.  Matheson. 

He  shook  hands  with  the  coroner,  who  was  grum- 
bling concerning  the  weather  ;  then  strode  out  back 
down  the  valley. 

Though  long  since  he  had  grown  familiar  with  the 
aspects  of  suffering,  that  scene  in  the  cottage,  by  rea- 
son of  its  very  simplicity,  had  affected  him  strangely. 
His  heart  was  full  of  slow  sorrow  for  the  woman's 
trouble,  and  the  image  of  the  child,  lying  beautiful 
in  its  death-sleep,  passed  and  re-passed  in  his  mind. 

By-and-bye,  the  moaning  of  the  wind,  the  whirling 
of  lost  leaves,  the  inky  shingle-beds  that  stained  the 
fell-sides,  inclined  his  thoughts  to  a  listless  brood- 
ing. 

Life  seemed  dull,  inevitable,  draped  in  sombre, 
drifting  shadows,  like  the  valley-head.  Yet  in  all 
good  .he  saw  the  hand  of  God,  a  mysterious,  invisible 
force,  ever  imperiously  at  work  beneath  the  ravages 
of  suffering  and  of  sin. 


In  Cumberland  185 

It  was  close  upon  six  o'clock  when  he  reached  home. 
He  was  drenched  to  the  skin,  and  as  he  sat  before  the 
fire,  dense  clouds  of  steam  rose  from  his  mud-stained 
boots  and  trousers. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Burkett,  jest  ye  gang  and  tak'  off  them 
things,  while  I  make  yer  tea.  Ye  '11  catch  yer  death 
one  of  these  days — I  know  ye  will.  I  sometimes 
think  ye  have  n't  more  sense  than  a  boy,  traipsin' 
about  all  t'  day  in  t'  wet,  and  niver  takin'  yer  meals 
proper-like." 

A  faint  smile  flickered  across  his  face.  He  was  used 
to  his  landlady's  scoldings. 

"  A  child  was  drowned  yesterday  in  the  beck  up  at 
Beda  Cottages.  I  had  to  go  back  there  this  afternoon 
to  arrange  about  the  funeral,"  he  mumbled,  half  apol- 
ogetically. 

Mrs.  Parkin  snorted  defiantly,  bustling  round  the 
table  as  she  spread  the  cloth.  Presently  she  broke  out 
again  : 

"  An'  noo,  ye  set  there  lookin'  as  white  as  a  bogle. 
Why  don't  ye  go  an'  git  them  wet  clothes  off?  Ye  're 
fair  wringin'." 

He  obeyed  ;  though  the  effort  to  rise  was  great.  He 
felt  curiously  cold ;  his  teeth  were  clacking,  and  the 
warmth  from  the  flames  seemed  delicious. 

In  his  bedroom  a  dizziness  caught  him,  and  it  was  a 
moment  before  he  could  recognise  the  familiar  objects. 
And  he  realised  that  he  was  ill,  and  looked  at  himself 


i86  Sentimental  Studies 


iti  the  glass  with  a  dull,  scared  expression.  He  strug- 
gled through  his  dressing,  however,  and  went  back  to 
his  tea.  But,  though  he  had  eaten  nothing  since  the 
morning,  he  had  no  appetite  ;  so,  from  sheer  force  of 
habit,  he  lit  a  pipe,  wheeling  his  chair  close  to  the  fire. 

And,  as  the  heat  penetrated  him,  his  thoughts  spun 
aimlessly  round  the  day's  events,  till  these  gradually 
drifted  into  the  background  of  his  mind,  as  it  were, 
and  he  and  they  seemed  to  have  become  altogether  de- 
tached. His  forehead  was  burning,  and  a  drowsy, 
delicious  sense  of  physical  weakness  was  stealing  over 
his  limbs.  He  was  going  to  be  ill,  he  remembered  ; 
and  it  was  with  vague  relief  that  he  looked  forward  to 
the  prospect  of  long  days  of  monotonous  inactivity, 
long  days  of  repose  from  the  daily  routine  of  fatigue. 
The  details  of  each  day's  work,  the  accomplishment 
which,  before,  had  appeared  so  indispensable,  now,  he 
felt  in  his  lassitude,  had  faded  to  insignificance.  Mrs. 
Parkin  was  right  :  he  had  been  overdoing  himself  ; 
and  with  a  clear  conscience  he  would  take  a  forced 
holiday  in  bed.  Things  in  the  parish  would  get  along 
without  him  till  the  end  of  the  week.  There  was 
only  the  drowned  child's  funeral,  and,  if  he  could  not 
go,  Milner,  the  neighbouring  vicar,  would  take  it  for 
him.  His  pipe  slipped  from  his  hand  to  the  hearth-rug 
noiselessly,  and  his  head  sank  forward.  .  .  . 

He  was  dreaming  of  the  old  churchyard.  The  trees 
were  rocking  their  slim,  bare  arms  ;  drip,  drip,  drip, 


In  Cumberland  187 

the  drops  pattered  on  to  the  tombstones,  tight-huddled 
in  the  white,  wet  light  of  the  moon  ;  the  breath  of  the 
old  churchyard  tasted  warm  and  moist,  like  the  reek 
of  horses  after  a  long  journey. 

The  child's  funeral  was  finished.  Mrs.  Matheson 
had  cried  noisily  into  her  apron  ;  the  mourners  were 
all  gone  now  ;  and  alone,  he  sat  down  on  the  fresh-dug 
grave.  By  the  moonlight  he  tried  to  decipher  the 
names  carved  on  the  slabs  ;  but  most  of  the  letters  had 
faded  away,  and  moss-cushions  had  hidden  the  rest. 
Then  he  found  it :  "  George  Matheson,  aged  four  years 
and  five  days,"  and  underneath  were  carved  Mrs. 
Matheson's  words:  "He  was  the  bonniest  boy  in  all 
the  parish. ' '  He  sat  on  with  the  dread  of  death  upon 
him,  the  thought  of  that  black  senselessness  ahead, 
possessing  him,  so  sudden,  so  near,  so  intimate,  that 
it  seemed  entirely  strange  to  have  lived  on,  forgetful 
of  it.  By-and-bye,  he  saw  her  coming  towards  him — 
Ethel,  like  a  figure  from  a  picture,  wearing  a  white 
dress  that  trailed  behind  her,  a  red  rose  pinned  at  the 
waist,  and  the  old  smile  on  her  lips.  And  she  came 
beside  him,  and  told  him  how  her  husband  had  gone 
away  for  ever,  and  he  understood  at  once  that  he  and 
she  were  betrothed  again,  as  it  had  been  five  years  ago. 
He  tried  to  answer  her,  but  somehow  the  words  would 
not  come  ;  and,  as  he  was  striving  to  frame  them, 
there  came  a  great  crash.  A  bough  clattered  down  on 
the  tombstones  ;  and  with  a  start  he  awoke. 


1 88  Sentimental  Studies 


A  half-burned  coal  was  smoking  in  the  fender.  He 
felt  as  if  he  had  been  sleeping  for  many  hours. 

He  fell  to  stupidly  watching  the  red-heat,  as  it  pulsed 
through  the  caves  of  coal,  to  imagining  himself  climb- 
ing their  ashen  mountain-ridges,  across  dark  denies, 
up  the  face  of  treacherous  precipices.  .  . 

Hundred  of  times,  here  in  this  room,  in  this  chair, 
before  this  fire,  he  had  sat  smoking,  picturing  the  old 
scenes  to  himself,  musing  of  Ethel  Fulton  (Ethel  Winn 
she  had  been  then  ;  but,  after  her  marriage,  he  had 
forced  himself  to  think  of  her  as  bearing  her  husband's 
name — that  was  a  mortification  from  which  he  had  de- 
rived a  sort  of  bitter  satisfaction).  But  now,  with  the 
long  accumulation  of  his  solitude — five  years  he  had 
been  vicar  of  Scarsdale — he  had  grown  so  unconscious 
of  self,  so  indifferent  to  the  course  of  his  own  exist- 
ence, that  every  process  of  his  mind  had,  from  sheer 
lack  of  external  stimulation,  stagnated,  till,  little  by 
little,  the  growth  of  mechanical  habit  had  come  to 
mould  its  shape  and  determine  its  limitations.  And 
hence,  not  for  a  moment  had  he  ever  realised  the  grip 
that  this  habit  of  sentimental  reminiscence  had  taken 
on  him,  nor  the  grotesque  extent  of  its  futile  repetition. 
Such  was  the  fervour  of  his  attitude  towards  his  single 
chapter  of  romance. 

Five  years  ago,  she  and  he  had  promised  their  lives 
to  one  another.  A  future  had  beckoned  them  onward, 
gaily,  belittling  every  obstacle  in  its  suffusion  of  glad, 


In  Cumberland  189 

alluring  colour.  He  was  poor,  he  had  but  his  curate's 
stipend,  and  she  was  used  to  a  regular  routine  of  ease. 
But  he  would  have  tended  her  wants,  waiting  on  her, 
watching  over  her,  indefatigably  ;  chastening  all  the 
best  that  was  in  him,  that  he  might  lay  it  at  her  feet. 
And  together,  hand  in  hand,  they  would  have  laboured 
in  God's  service.  At  least  so  it  seemed  to  him  now. 

Then  had  come  an  enforced  separation  ;  and  later, 
after  a  prolonged,  unaccountable  delay,  a  letter  from 
her  explaining,  in  trite,  discursive  phrases,  how  it 
could  never  be — it  was  a  mistake — she  had  not  known 
her  own  mind — now  she  could  see  things  clearer — she 
hoped  he  would  forgive  and  forget  her. 

A  wild  determination  to  go  at  once  to  her,  to  plead 
with  her,  gripped  him  ;  but  for  three  days  he  was  help- 
less, bound  fast  by  parish  duties.  And  when  at  last  he 
found  himself  free,  he  had  already  begun  to  perceive 
the  hopelessness  of  such  an  errand,  and,  with  crushed 
and  dogged  despair,  to  accept  his  fate  as  inevocable. 

In  his  boyhood — at  the  local  grammar-school,  where 
his  ugliness  had  made  him  the  butt  of  his  class — and 
later,  at  an  insignificant  Oxford  college,  where,  to 
spare  his  father,  whose  glebe  was  at  that  time  un ten- 
anted, he  had  set  himself  grimly  to  live  on  an  impos- 
sibly slender  allowance — at  every  turn  of  his  life,  he 
had  found  himself  at  a  disadvantage  with  his  fellows. 
Thus  he  had  suffered  much,  dumbly — meekly  many 
would  have  said — without  a  sign  of  resentment,  or 


190  Sentimental  Studies 

desire  for  retaliation.  But  all  the  while,  in  his  tenacious 
long-suffering  way,  he  was  stubbornly  inuring  him- 
self to  an  acceptance  of  his  own  disqualifications. 
And  so,  once  rudely  awakened  from  his  dream  of  love, 
he  wondered  with  heavy  curiosity  at  his  faith  in  its 
glamorous  reality,  and,  remembering  the  tenor  of  his 
life,  suffered  bitterly  like  a  man  befooled  by  his  own 
conceit. 

Some  months  after  the  shattering  of  his  romance, 
the  rumour  reached  him-  that  James  Fulton,  a  prosper- 
ous solicitor  in  the  town,  was  courting  her.  The  thing 
was  impossible,  a  piece  of  idle  gossip,  he  reasoned  with 
himself.  Before  long,  however,  he  heard  it  again,  in 
a  manner  that  left  no  outlet  for  doubt. 

It  seemed  utterly  strange,  unaccountable,  that  she, 
whose  eager  echoing  of  all  his  own  spiritual  fervour 
and  enthusiasm  for  the  work  of  the  Church  still  rang 
in  his  ears,  should  have  chosen  a  man,  whose  sole  talk 
had  seemed  to  be  of  dogs  and  of  horses,  of  guns  and 
of  game ;  a  man  thick-minded,  unthinking,  self-com- 
placent ;  a  man  whom  he  himself  had  carelessly  de- 
spised as  devoid  of  any  spark  of  spirituality. 

And,  at  this  moment,  when  the  first  smartings  of 
bitter  bewilderment  were  upon  him,  the  little  living  of 
Scarsdale  fell  vacant,  and  his  rector,  perhaps  not  un- 
mindful of  his  trouble,  suggested  that  he  should  apply 
for  it. 

The  valley  was  desolate  and  full  of  sombre  beauty  ; 


In'  Cumberland  191 

the  parish,  sparsely  peopled  but  extensive ;  the  life 
there  would  be  monotonous,  almost  grim,  with  long 
hours  of  lonely  brooding.  The  living  was  offered  to 
him.  He  accepted  it  excitedly. 

And  there,  busied  with  his  new  responsibilities, 
throwing  himself  into  the  work  with  a  suppressed, 
ascetic  ardour,  news  of  the  outside  world  reached  him 
vaguely,  as  if  from  afar. 

He  read  of  her  wedding  in  the  local  newspaper  ;  later, 
a  few  trite  details  of  her  surroundings ;  and  then 
nothing  more. 

But  her  figure  remained  still  resplendent  in  his 
memory,  and,  as  time  slipped  by,  grew  into  a  sort  of 
gleaming  shrine,  incarnating  for  him  all  the  beauty  of 
womanhood.  And  gradually,  this  incarnation  grew 
detached,  as  it  were,  from  her  real  personality,  so  that 
when  twice  a  year  he  went  back  to  spend  Sunday  with 
his  old  rector,  to  preach  a  sermon  "in  the  parish  church, 
he  felt  no  shrinking  dread  lest  he  should  meet  her. 
He  had  long  ceased  to  bear  any  resentment  against 
her,  or  to  doubt  that  she  had  done  what  was  right. 
The  part  that  had  been  his  in  the  little  drania  seemed 
altogether  of  lesser  importance. 

All  night  he  lay  feverishly  tossing,  turning  his  pil- 
low aglow  with  heat,  from  side  to  side  :  anxiously 
reiterating  whole  incoherent  conversations  and  jumbled 
incidents. 


192  Sentimental  Studies 


At  intervals,  he  was  dimly  conscious  of  the  hiss  of 
wind-swept  leaves  outside,  and  of  rain-gusts  rattling 
the  window-panes  ;  and  later,  of  the  sickly  light  of 
early  morning  streaking  the  ceiling  with  curious 
patterns.  By-and-bye,  he  dropped  into  a  fitful  sleep, 
and  forgot  the  stifling  heat  of  his  bed. 

Then  the  room  had  grown  half  full  of  daylight,  and 
Mrs.  Parkin  was  there,  fidgeting  with  the  curtains. 
She  said  'something  which  he  did  not  hear,  and  he 
mumbled  that  he  had  slept  badly,  and  that  his  head 
was  aching. 

Some  time  later — how  long  he  did  not  know — she 
appeared  again,  and  a  man,  whom  he  presently  under- 
stood to  be  a  doctor,  and  who  put  a  thermometer,  the 
touch  of  which  was  deliciously  cool,  under  his  armpit, 
and  sat  down  at  the  table  to  write.  Mrs.  Parkin  and 
he  talked  in  whispers  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  ;  they  went 
away  ;  Mrs.  Parkin  brought  him  a  cup  of  beef-tea  and 
some  toast ;  and  then  he  remembered  only  the  blurred 
memories  of  queer,  unfinished  dreams. 

Consciousness  seemed  to  return  to  him  all  of  a  sud- 
den ;  and,  when  it  was  come,  he  understood  dimly  that, 
somehow,  the  fatigue  of  long  pain  was  over,  and  he 
tasted  the  peaceful  calm  of  utter  lassitude. 

He  lay  quite  still,  his  gaze  following  Mrs.  Parkin, 
as  she  moved  to  and  fro  across  the  room,  till  it  fell  on 
a  basket  full  of  grapes  that  stood  by  the  bedside. 
They  were  unfamiliar,  inexplicable  ;  they  puzzled  him  ; 


In  Cumberland  193 

and  for  a  while  he  feebly  turned  the  matter'  over  in  his 
mind.  Presently  she  glanced  at  him,  and  he  lifted  his 
hand  towards  the  basket. 

"Would  ye  fancy  a  morsel  o'  fruit  noo?  'Twas 
Mrs.  Fulton  that  sent  'em,"  she  said. 

She  held  the  basket  towards  him,  and  he  lifted  a 
bunch  from  it.  They  were  purple  grapes,  large  and 
luscious-looking.  Ethel  had  sent  them.  How  strange 
that  was  !  For  an  instant  he  doubted  if  he  were  awake, 
and  clutched  the  pillow  to  make  sure  that  it  was  real. 

"  Mrs.  Fulton  sent  them  ?  "  he  repeated. 

"Ay,  her  coachman  came  yesterday  in  t'  forenoon  to 
inquire  how  ye  were  farin',  and  left  that  fruit  for  ye. 
Ay,  Mr.  Burkett,  but  ye've  had  a  mighty  quantity  o' 
callers.  Most  all  t'  parish  has  been  askin'  for  news  o' 
ye.  An'  that  poor  woman  from  t'  factory  cottages  has 
been  doon  forenoon  and  night. ' ' 

"  How  long  have  I  been  in  bed  ?  "  he  asked  after  a 
pause. 

"Five  days  and  five  nights.  Ye've  bin  nigh  at 
death's  door,  ravin'  and  moanin'  like  a  madman.  But, 
noo,  I  must  na  keep  ye  chatterin' .  Ye  should  jest  keep 
yeself  quiet  till  t'  doctor  coomes.  He'll  be  mighty 
surprised  to  find  ye  so  much  improved,  and  in  posses- 
sion of  yer  faculties." 

And  she  left  him  alone. 

He    lay   staring    at    the   grapes,    while   excitement 

quickened  every  pulse.     Ethel  had  sent  them — they 
13 


194  Sentimental  Studies 

were  from  Ethel — Ethel  had  sent  them — through  his 
brain,  to  and  fro,  boisterously,  the  thought  danced. 
And  then,  he  started  to  review  the  past,  dispassionately, 
critically,  as  if  it  were  another  man's  ;  and  soon,  every 
detail,  as  he  lingered  on  it,  seemed  to  disentangle  itself, 
till  it  all  achieved  a  curious  simplification.  The  five 
years  at  Scarsdale  became  all  blurred  ;  they  resembled 
an  eventless  waste-level,  through  which  he  had  been 
mechanically  trudging.  But  the  other  day,  it  seemed, 
he  was  with  her — he  and  she  betrothed  to  one  another. 
A  dozen  scenes  passed  before  his  eyes  :  with  a  flush  of 
hot,  intolerable  shame,  he  saw  himself,  clumsy,  un- 
couth, devoid  of  personal  charm,  viewing  her  bluntly, 
selfishly  through  the  cumbrous  medium  of  his  own 
personality.  And  her  attitude  was  clear  too ;  the 
glamour,  woven  of  habitual,  sentimental  reminiscence, 
faded,  as  it  were,  from  her  figure,  aud  she  appeared  to 
him  simply  and  beautifully  human  ;  living,  vibrating, 
frail.  Now  he  knew  the  meaning  of  that  last  letter  of 
hers — the  promptings  of  each  phrase  ;  the  outpourings 
of  his  ideals,  enthusiasms,  aspirations — callow,  blatant, 
crude,  he  named  them  bitterly — had  scared  her;  she 
had  felt  herself  unequal  to  the  strain  of  the  life  he  had 
offered  her  ;  in  her  lovable,  womanish  frailty,  she  had 
grown  to  dread  it ;  and  he  realised  all  that  she  had 
suffered  before  she  had  brought  herself  to  end  it — the 
long  struggles  with  doubt  and  suspense.  The  veil  that 
had  clogged  his  view  was  lifted  ;  he  knew  her  now  ;  he 


In   Cumberland  195 

could  read  the  writing  on  her  soul ;  he  was  securely 
equipped  for  loving  her  ;  and  now,  she  had  passed  out 
of  his  life,  beyond  recall.  In  his  blindness  he  had  not 
recognised  her,  and  had  driven  her  away. 

How  came  it  that  to-day,  for  the  first  time,  all  these 
things  were  made  clear  ? 

The  clock  struck  ;  and  while  he  was  listening  to  its 
fading  note,  the  door-handle  clicked  briskly,  and  the 
doctor  walked  in.  He  talked  cheerily  of  the  crops 
damaged  by  the  storm,  and  the  sound  of  his  voice 
seemed  to  vibrate  harshly  through  the  room. 

"  There  's  a  heavy  shower  coming  up,"  he  remarked. 
"  By  the  way,  you  're  quite  alone  here,  Mr.  Burkett,  I 
believe.  Have  you  no  relatives  whom  you  would  like 
to  send  for  ? ' ' 

"  No — no  one,"  Alec  answered.  "  Mrs.  Parkin  will 
look  after  me. ' ' 

"  Yes — but  you  see,"  and  he  came  and  sat  down  by 
the  bedside,  "  I  don't  say  there  's  any  immediate  dan- 
ger ;  but  you've  had  a  very  near  touch  of  it.  Now 
isn't  there  any  old  friend? — you  ought  not  to  be  alone 
like  this."  He  spoke  the  last  words  with  emphasis. 

Alec  shook  his  head.  His  gaze  had  fallen  on  the 
basket  of  grapes  again  ;  he  was  incoherently  musing 
of  Ethel. 

"  Mind,  I  don't  say  there  's  any  immediate  danger," 
he  heard  the  man  repeating  ;  "  but  I  must  tell  you  that 
you  're  not  altogether  out  of  the  wood  yet." 


196  Sentimental  Studies 

He  paused. 

' '  You  ought  to  be  prepared  for  the  worst,  Mr. 
Burkett." 

The  last  phrase  lingered  in  Alec's  mind  ;  and  slowly 
its  meaning  dawned  upon  him. 

' '  You  mean  I  might  die  at  any  moment  ?  "  he  asked. 

"No,  no — I  don't  say  that,"  the  other  answered 
evasively.  "But  you  see  the  fever  has  left  you  very 
weak  ;  and  of  course  in  such  cases  one  can  never  be 
quite  sure ' ' 

The  rest  did  not  reach  Alec's  ears  ;  he  was  only 
vaguely  aware  of  the  murmur  of  the  man's  voice. 

Presently  he  perceived  that  he  had  risen. 

"  I  will  come  back  in  the  afternoon,"  he  was  saying. 
"I'll  tell  Mrs. — Mrs.  Parker  to  bring  you  in  some 
breakfast. ' ' 

After  the  doctor  had  gone  he  dozed  a  little.  .  .  . 
Then  remembered  the  man's  words  :  "  No  immediate 
danger,  but  you  must  be  prepared  for  the  worst. ' '  The 
sense  of  it  all  flashed  upon  him  ;  he  understood  what 
the  man  had  meant ;  that  was  the  way  doctors  always 
told  such  things,  he  guessed.  So  the  end  was  near. 
He  wondered,  a  little  curiously,  if  it  would  come 
before  to-night,  or  to-morrow.  ...  It  was  near, 
quite  near,  he  repeated  to  himself;  and  gradually,  a 
peacefulness  permeated  his  whole  being,  and  he  was 
vaguely  glad  to  be  alone.  .  . 

A  little  while,  and  he  would  be  near  God.     He  felt 


In  Cumberland  197 

himself  detached  from  the  world,  and  at  peace  with  all 
men. 

His  life,  as  he  regarded  it  trailing  behind  him,  across 
the  stretch  of  past  years,  seemed  inadequate,  useless, 
pitiable  almost ;  of  his  own  personality,  as  he  now 
realised  it,  he  was  ashamed — petty  mortifications,  grop- 
ing efforts,  a  grotesque  capacity  for  futile,  melancholy 
brooding — he  rejoiced  that  he  was  to  have  done  with  it. 
The  end  was  near,  quite  near,  he  repeated  once  again. 

Then,  afterwards,  would  come  rest — the  infinite  rest 
of  the  Saviour's  tenderness,  and  the  strange,  wonder- 
ful expectation  of  the  mysterious  life  to  come.  .  .  . 
A  glimpse  of  his  own  serenity,  of  his  own  fearlessness, 
came  to  him  ;  and  he  was  moved  by  a  quick  flush  of 
gratitude  towards  God.  He  thought  of  the  terror  of  the 
atheist's  death — the  world,  a  clod  of  dead  matter  blindly 
careering  through  space  ;  humanity,  a  casual,  senseless 
growth,  like  the  pullulating  insects  on  a  rottening 
tree.  .  .  . 

A  little  while,  only  a  little  while,  and  he  would  be 
near  God.  And,  softly,  under  his  breath,  he  implored 
pardon  for  the  countless  shortcomings  of  his  service.  .  . 

The  German  clock  on  the  mantelpiece  ticked  with 
methodical  fussiness  :  the  flames  in  the  grate  flickered 
lower  and  lower  ;  and  one  by  one  dropped,  leaving  dull- 
red  cinders.  Through  the  window,  under  the  half- 
drawn  blind,  was  the  sk}r,  cold  with  the  hard,  white 
glare  of  the  winter  sun,  flashing  above  the  bare,  bony 


198  Sentimental  Studies 

mountain-backs ;  and  he  called  to  mind  spots  in  the 
little,  desolate  parish,  which,  with  a  grim,  clinging 
love,  he  had  come  to  regard  as  his  own  for  always. 
Who  would  come  after  him,  live  in  this  house  of  his, 
officiate  in  the  square,  grey-walled  church,  move  and 
work  in  God's  service  among  the  people?  .  .  . 

And,  while  he  lay  drowsily  musing  on  the  unfinished 
dream,  a  muffled  murmur  of  women's  voices  reached 
his  ears.  By  an  intuition,  akin  perhaps  to  animal  in- 
stinct, he  knew  all  at  once  that  it  was  she  talking  with 
Mrs.  Parkin  down  in  the  room  below.  Prompted  by 
a  rush  of  imperious  impulse  he  raised  himself  on  his 
elbow  to  listen. 

There  was  a  rustling  of  skirts  in  the  passage  and  the 
sound  of  the  voices  grew  clearer. 

"  Good-day,  ma'am,  and  thank  ye  very  kindly,  I'm 
sure,"  Mrs.  Parkin  was  saying. 

No  reply  carne,  though  he  was  straining  every  nerve 
to  catch  it.  ...  At  last,  subdued,  but  altogether 
distinct,  her  voice  : 

"You  're  sure  there  's  nothing  else  I  can  send  ?  " 

The  door  of  his  room  was  ajar.  He  dug  his  nails 
into  the  panel-edge,  and  tried  to  swing  it  open.  But 
he  could  scarcely  move  it,  and  in  a  moment  she  would 
be  gone. 

Suddenly  he  heard  his  own  voice — loud  and  queer  it 
sounded : 

"  Ethel— Ethel !" 


In  Cumberland  199 

Hurried  steps  mounted  the  stairs,  and  Mrs.  Parkin's 
white  cap  and  spectacled  face  appeared. 

"What  be  t'  matter,  Mr.  Burkett  ? "  she  asked 
breathlessly. 

"  Stop  her— tell  her." 

"  Dearie,  dearie  me,  he's  off  wanderin'  agin." 

"No,  no;  I  'm  all  right— tell— ask  Mrs.  Fulton  if 
she  would  come  up  to  see  me  ? ' ' 

"  There,  there,  Mr.  Burkett,  don't  ye  excite  yeself. 
Ye 're  not  fit  to  see  any  one,  ye  know  that.  L,ie  ye 
doon  agin,  or  ye  '11  be  catchin'  yer  death  o'  cauld." 

"  Ask  her  to  come,  please — just  for  a  minute." 

"For  Heaven's  sake  lie  doon.  Ye  "11  be  workin' 
yerself  into  a  fever  next.  There,  there,  I  '11  ask  her 
for  ye,  though  I  've  na  notion  what  t'  doctor  'ud  say. 

She  drew  down  the  blind  and  retired,  closing  the 
door  quietly  behind  her. 

The  next  thing  he  saw  was  Ethel  standing  by  his 
bedside. 

He  lay  watching  her  without  speaking.  She  wore  a 
red  dress  trimmed  with  fur  ;  a  gold  bracelet  was  round 
her  gloved  wrist,  and  a  veil  half  hid  her  features. 

Presently  he  perceived  that  she  was  very  white,  that 
her  mouth  was  twitching,  and  that  her  eyes  were  full 
of  tears. 

"Alec — I  'm  so  sorry  you  're  so  ill.  .  .  .  Are  you 
in  pain?  " 

He  shook  his  head  absently.     Her  veil  and  the  fur 


2OO  Sentimental  Studies 


on  her  cloak  looked  odd,  he  thought  in  the  half-light 
of  the  room. 

' '  You  will  be  better  soon  ;  the  worst  is  over. ' ' 

"  No,"  he  ajiswered,  with  a  dreary  smile.  "lam 
going  to  die." 

She  burst  into  sobs. 

"  No,  no,  Alec.     .     .     .     You  must  not  think  that." 

He  stretched  his  arm  over  the  coverlet  towards  her, 
and  felt  the  soft  pressure  of  her  gloved  hand. 

"  Forgive  me,  Ethel,  I  'm  sorry.  I  did  n't  mean  to 
pain  you.  But  it  is  so  ;  the  doctor  told  me  this  morn- 
ing." 

She  sat  down  by  the  bedside,  still  crying,  pressing 
her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes. 

"Ethel,  how  strange  it  seems.  Do  you  know  I 
have  n't  seen  you  since  I  left  Cockerrnouth  ?  "  The 
words  came  deliberately,  for  his  mind  had  grown  quite 
calm.  "  How  the  time  has  flown  !  " 

Her  grasp  on  his  hand  tightened,  but  she  made  no 
answer. 

"  It  is  very  kind  of  you  to  come  all  this  way,  Ethel,  to 
see  me.  Will  you  stay  a  little  and  let  me  talk  to  you  ? 
It 's  more  than  five  years  since  we  talked  together,  you 
know,"  and  he  smiled  faintly.  "  Don't  cry  so,  Ethel 
dear.  I  did  not  mean  to  make  you  cry.  There  's  no 
cause  to  cry,  dear  ;  you  've  made  me  so  happy." 

"  My  poor,  poor  Alec,"  she  sobbed. 

"You'd  almost  forgotten  the  old  days,  perhaps," 


In  Cumberland  201 


he  continued  dreamily,  talking  half  to  himself ;  "  for 
it 's  a  long  while  ago  now.  But  to  me  it  seems  as  if  it 
had  all  just  happened.  You  see  I  've  been  vegetating 
rather,  here  in  this  lonely  little  place  .  .  .  Don't 
go  on  crying,  Ethel  dear  ...  let  me  tell  you 
about  things  a  little.  There's  no  harm  in  it  now, 
because  you  know  I  'm — 

"  Oh  !  don't — don't  say  that.  You  '11  get  better.  I 
know  you  will." 

"  No,  Ethel,  I  sha'n't.  Something  within  me  tells 
me  that  my  course  is  done.  Besides,  I  don't  want  to 
get  better.  I  'm  so  happy  .  .  .  Stay  a  little  with 
me,  Ethel  ...  I  wanted  to  explain  ...  I  was 
stupid,  selfish,  in  the  old  days — 

"  It  was  I — I  who —  '  she  protested  through  her 
tears. 

"  No,  you  were  quite  right  to  write  me  that  letter. 
I  've  thought  that  almost  from  the  first  .  .  .  I  'ni 
sure  of  it,"  he  added,  as  if  convincing  himself  defi- 
nitely. "It  could  never  be  ...  it  was  my  fault 
;  .  .  I  was  stupid  and  boorish  and  wrapped  up  in 
myself.  I  did  not  try  to  understand  your  nature  .  .  . 
I  did  n't  understand  anything  about  women  ...  I 
never  had  a  sister  ...  I  took  for  granted  that 
you  were  always  thinking  and  feeling  just  as  I  was.  I 
never  tried  to  understand  you,  Ethel  ...  I  was 
not  fit  to  be  entrusted  with  you." 

' '  Alec,  Alec,  it  is  not  true.     You  were  too  good,  too 


2O2  Sentimental  Studies 


noble-hearted.  I  felt  you  were  far  above  me.  Beside 
you  I  felt  I  was  silly  and  frivolous.  Your  standards 
about  everything  seemed  so  high ' ' 

But  he  interrupted,  unheeding  her  : 

"  You  don't  know,  Ethel,  how  happy  you  've  made 
me  ...  I  have  thought  of  you  every  day.  In  the 
evenings,  I  used  to  sit  alone,  remembering  you  and  all 
the  happy  days  we  had  together,  and  the  remembrance 
of  them  has  been  a  great  joy  to  me.  I  used  to  go  over 
them  all,  again  and  again.  The  day  that  we  all  went 
to  Morecambe,  and  that  walk  along  the  sea-shore, 
when  the  tide  caught  us,  and  I  carried  you  across  the 
water  .  .  .  the  time  that  we  went  to  those  ruins, 
and  you  wore  the  primroses  I  picked  for  you.  And  I 
used  to  read  over  all  your  letters,  and  remember  all  the 
things  you  used  to  say.  Down-stairs,  under  the  writ- 
ing-table, there  is  a  black,  tin  cash-box — the  key  is  on 
my  bunch — Mrs.  Parkin  will  give  it  you.  It  's  where 
I  've  kept  everything  that  has  reminded  me  of  you,  all 
this  time.  Will  you  take  it  back  with  you  ?  .  .  .  You 
don't  know  how  you  've  helped  me  all  these  years — I 
wanted  to  tell  you  that.  .  .  .  When  I  was  in  diffi- 
culties, I  used  to  wonder  how  you  would  have  liked 
me  to  act.  .  .  .  When  I  was  lonely  and  low-spirited, 
I  used  to  tell  myself  that  you  were  happy. ' '  He  paused 
for  breath,  and  his  voice  died  slowly  in  the  stillness  of 
the  room.  "  You  were  quite  right,"  he  murmured  al- 
most inaudibly ,  ' '  I  see  it  all  quite  clearly  now. ' ' 


In  Cumberland  20. 


She  was  bending  over  him,  and  was  framing  his  face 
in  her  two  hands. 

"Say  I  was  wrong,"  she  pleaded  passionately. 
"  Say  I  was  wicked,  wrong.  I  loved  you,  Alec  .  .  . 
I  was  promised  to  you.  I  should  have  been  so  happy 
with  you,  dear.  .  .  .  Alec,  my  Alec,  do  not  die. 
.  .  .  God  will  not  let  you  die.  .  .  .  He  cannot 
be  so  cruel.  .  .  .  Come  back,  Alec  ...  I  love 
you.  .  .  .  Do  you  hear,  my  Alec  ?  I  love  you.  .  .  . 
Ethel  loves  you.  .  .  .  Before  God  I  love  you  .  .  . 
I  was  promised  to  you.  ...  I  broke  my  word 
.  .  .  I  loved  you  all  the  time,  but  I  did  not  know 
it.  ...  Forgive  me,  my  Alec  .  .  .  forgive  me 
.  .  .  I  shall  love  you  always." 

He  passed  his  fingers  over  her  forehead  tentatively, 
as  if  he  were  in  darkness. 

' '  Ethel,  every  day,  every  hour,  all  these  years,  you 
have  been  with  me.  And  now  I  am  going  away.  Kiss 
me — just  once — just  once.  There  can  be  no  wrong  in 
it  now." 

She  tore  her  veil  from  her  face ;  their  lips  met,  and 
her  head  rested  a  moment,  sobbing,  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Hush  !  don't  cry,  Ethel  dear,  don't  cry.  You  have 
made  me  so  glad.  .  .  .  And  you  will  remember  to 
take  the  box.  .  .  .  And  you  will  think  of  me  some- 
times. .  .  .  And  I  shall  pray  God  to  make  you 
happy,  and  I  shall  wait  for  you,  Ethel,  and  be  with 
you  in  thought,  and  if  you  have  trouble,  you  will  know 


204  Sentimental  Studies 

that  I  shall  be  sorrowing  with  you.  Is  n't  it  so,  dear? 
.  .  .  Now,  good-bye,  dear  one — good-bye.  May 
God  watch  over  you." 

She  had  moved  away.  She  came  back  again,  how- 
ever, and  kissed  his  forehead  reverently.  But  he  was 
not  aware  of  her  return,  for  his  mind  had  begun  to 
wander. 

She  brushed  past  Mrs.  Parkin  in  the  passage,  bid- 
ding her  an  incoherent  good-bye  ;  she  was  instinctively 
impatient  to  escape  to  the  protection  of  familiar  sur- 
roundings. Inside  the  house,  she  felt  helpless,  dizzy  ; 
the  melodrama  of  the  whole  scene  had  stunned  her 
senses,  and  pity  for  him  was  rushing  through  her  in 
waves  of  pulsing  emotion. 

As  she  passed  the  various  landmarks,  .which  she 
had  noted  on  her  outward  journey — a  group  of  Scotch 
firs,  a  roofless  cattle-shed,  a  pile  of  felled  trees — each 
seemed  to  wear  an  altered  aspect.  With  what  a 
strange  suddenness  it  had  all  happened  !  Yesterday 
the  groom  had  brought  back  word  that  he  was  in 
delirium,  and  had  told  her  of  the  loneliness  of  the 
house.  It  had  seemed  so  sad,  his  lying  ill,  all  alone  ; 
the  thought  had  preyed  on  her  conscience,  till  she  had 
started  to  drive  out  there  to  inquire  if  there  were  any- 
thing she  could  do  to  help  him.  Now,  every  corner 
round  which  the  cart  swung,  lengthened  the  stretch 
of  road  that  separated  her  from  that  tragic  scene  in 
his  room.  .  .  .  Perhaps  it  was  not  right  for  her 


In  Cumberland  205 

to  drive  home  and  leave  him?  But  she  could  n't  bear 
to  stay  ;  it  was  all  so  dreadful.  Besides,  she  assured 
herself,  she  could  do  no  good.  There  was  the  doctor, 
and  that  old  woman  who  nursed  him — they  would 
see  to  everything.  .  .  .  Poor,  poor  Alec — alone  in 
that  grey-walled  cottage,  pitched  at  the  far  end  of 
this  long,  bleak  valley — the  half-darkened  room — his 
wasted,  feverish  face — and  his  knowing  that  he  could 
not  live — it  all  came  back  to  her  vividly,  and  she  shiv- 
ered as  if  with  cold.  Death  seemed  hideous,  awful, 
almost  wicked  in  the  cruelty  of  its  ruthlessness.  And 
the  homeward  drive  loomed  ahead,  interminably — for 
two  hours  she  would  have  to  wait  with  the  dreadful, 
flaring  remembrance  of  it  all — two  hours — for  the  horse 
was  tired,  and  it  was  thirteen  miles,  a  man  by  the  road- 
side had  told  her.  .  .  . 

He  was  noble-hearted,  saint-like.  .  .  .  Her  pity 
for  him  welled  up  once  more,  and  she  convinced  her- 
self that  she  could  have  loved  him,  worshipped  him, 
been  worthy  of  him  as  a  husband — and  now  he  lay 
dying.  He  had  revealed  his  whole  nature  to  her,  it 
seemed.  No  one  had  ever  understood,  as  she  did  now, 
what  a  fine  character  he  was  in  reality.  Her  cheeks 
grew  hot  with  indignation  and  shame,  as  she  remem- 
bered how  she  had  heard  people  laugh  at  him  behind 
his  back,  refer  to  him  mockingly  as  the  "love-sick 
curate."  And  all  this  while — for  five  whole  years — 
he  had  gone  on  caring  for  her — thinking  of  her  each 


206  Sentimental  Studies 


day,  reading  her  letters,  recalling  the  things  she  used 
to  say — yes,  those  were  his  very  words.  Before,  she 
had  never  suspected  that  it  was  in  his  nature  to  take 
it  so  horribly  tragically  ;  yet,  somehow,  directly  he 
had  fixed  his  eyes  on  her  in  that  excited  way,  she  had 
half  guessed  it.  ... 

The  horse's  trot  slackened  to  a  walk,  and  the  wheels 
crunched  over  a  bed  of  newly  strewn  stones.  .  .  .. 
She  was  considering  how  much  of  what  had  happened 
she  could  relate  to  Jim.  Oh  !  the  awfulness  of  his 
knowing  beforehand  like  that  !  She  had  kissed  him  ; 
she  had  told  him  that  she  cared  for  him  ;  she  had  n't 
been  able  to  help  doing  that.  There  was  no  harm  in 
it ;  she  had  made  him  happier — he  had  said  so  him- 
self. .  .  .  But  Jim  would  n't  understand ;  he 
would  be  angry  with  her  for  having  gone,  perhaps. 
He  would  n't  see  that  she  could  n't  have  done  any- 
thing else.  No,  she  could  n't  bear  to  tell  him;  be- 
sides, it  seemed  somehow  like  treachery  to  Alec. 
.  .  .  Oh  !  it  must  be  awful  to  know  beforehand  like 
that !  .  The  doctor  should  never  have  told 

him.  It  was  horrible,  cruel.  ...  In  the  past  how 
she  had  been  to  blame — she  saw  that  now  ;  thought- 
less, selfish,  altogether  beneath  him. 

It  was  like  a  chapter  in  a  novel.  His  loving  her 
silently  all  these  years,  and  telling  her  about  it  on  his 
death-bed.  At  the  thought  of  it  she  thrilled  with 
subtle  pride  ;  it  illuminated  the  whole  ordinariness  of 


In  Cumberland  207 

her    life.     The    next   moment   the   train   of  her  own 
thoughts    shamed     her.      Poor,    poor    Alec.     . 
And  to  reinforce  her  pity,  she  recalled  the  tragic  set- 
ting of  the  scene. 

That  woman — his  landlady — could  she  have  heard 
anything  ?  she  wondered  with  a  twinge  of  dread.  No, 
the  door  was  shut,  and  his  voice  had  been  very  low. 

The  horse  turned  on  to  the  main  road,  and  pricking 
his  ears,  quickened  his  pace. 

She  would  remember  him  always.  Every  day  she 
would  think  of  him,  as  he  had  asked  her  to  do — she 
would  never  forget  to  do  that.  And,  if  she  were  in 
trouble,  or  difficulty,  she  would  turn  her  thoughts 
towards  him,  just  as  he  had  told  her  he  used  to  do. 
She  would  try  to  become  better — more  religious — for 
his  sake.  She  would  read  her  Bible  each  morning,  as 
she  knew  had  been  his  habit.  These  little  things  were 
all  she  could  do  now.  Her  attitude  in  the  future  she 
would  make  worthy  of  his  in  the  past.  .  .  .  He 
would  become,  the  secret  guiding-star  of  her  life  ;  it 
would  be  her  hidden  chapter  of  romance. 

The  box — that  box  which  he  had  asked  her  to  take. 
She  had  promised,  and  she  had  forgotten  it.  How 
could  she  get  it?  It  was  too  late  to  turn  back  now. 
Jim  would  be  waiting  for  her.  She  would  only  just  be 
in  time  for  dinner  as  it  was.  .  .  .  How  could  she 
get  it  ?  If  she  wrote  to  his  landlady,  and  asked  her  to 
send  it — it  was  under  the  writing-table  in  the  sitting- 


208  Sentimental  Studies 


room   he    had  said.     .     .     .  She   must  get   it,  some- 
how.    .     . 

It  was  dark  before  she  reached  home.  Jim  was 
angry  with  her  for  being  late,  and  for  having  driven 
all  the  way  without  a  servant.  She  paid  no  heed  to 
his  upbraiding  :  but  told  him  shortly  that  Alec  was 
still  in  great  danger.  He  muttered  some  perfunctory 
expression  of  regret,  and  went  off  to  the  stables  to 
order  a  bran-mash  for  the  horse.  His  insensibility  to 
the  importance  of  the  tragedy  she  had  been  witnessing, 
exasperated  her  ;  she  felt  bitterly  mortified  that  he 
could  not  divine  all  that  she  had  been  suffering. 

The  last  of  the  winter  months  went,  and  life  in  the 
valley  swept  its  sluggish  course  onwards.  The  bleak, 
spring  winds  rollicked,  hooting  from  hill  to  hill.  The 
cattle  waited  for  evening,  huddled  under  the  walls  of 
untrimmed  stone ;  and  before  the  fireside,  in  every 
farmhouse,  new-born  lambs  lay  helplessly  bleating. 
On  Sundays  the  men  would  loaf  in  churlish  groups 
about  the  church  door,  jerk  curt  greetings  at  one 
another,  and  ask  for  news  of  Parson  Burkett.  It  was 
a  curate  from  Cockermouth  who  took  the  services  in 
his  stead — one  of  the  new-fangled  sort  ;  a  young 
gentleman  from  I^ondon  way,  who  mouthed  his  words 
like  a  girl,  carried  company  manners,  and  had  a  sight 
of  strange  clerical  practices. 

Alec   was   slowly   recovering.     The  fever  had  alto- 


In  Cumberland  209 

gether  left  him  ;  a  straw-coloured  beard  now  covered 
his  chin,  and  his  cheeks  were  grown  hollow  and  peaky- 
looking.  But  by  the  hay-harvest,  the  doctor  reckoned, 
he  would  be  as  strong  as  ever  again — so  it  was  com- 
monly reported. 

Mrs.  Parkin  declared  that  the  illness  had  done  him  a 
world  o'  good.  "  It 's  rested  his  mind  like,  and  kept 
him  from  frettin' .  He  was  alus  ower  given  to  studyin' 
on  his  own  thoughts,  till  he  got  dazed  like  and  took 
na  notice  o'  things.  An'  noo,"  she  would  conclude, 
"ye  should  jest  see  him,  smilin'  as  free  as  a  child." 

So  day  after  day  floated  vaguely  by,  and  to  Alec  the 
calm  of  their  unbroken  regularity  was  delicious.  He 
was  content  to  lie  still  for  hours,  thinking  of  nothing, 
remembering  nothing,  tasting  the  torpor  of  dreamy 
contemplation  ;  watching  through  the  window  the  slow 
drifting  of  the  shadows  ;  listening  to  the  cackling  of 
geese,  and  the  plaintive  bleating  of  sheep.  .  .  . 

By-and-bye,  with  returning  strength,  his  senses 
quickened,  and  grew  sensitive  to  every  passing  im- 
pression. To  eat  with  elaborate  deliberation  his  invalid 
meals  ;  to  watch  the  myriad  specks  of  gold  dancing 
across  a  bar  of  sunlight — these  were  sources  of  keen, 
exciting  delight.  But  in  the  foreground  of  his  mind, 
transfiguring  with  its  glamour  every  trivial  thought, 
flashed  the  memory  of  Ethel's  visit.  He  lived  through 
the  whole  scene  again  and  again,  picturing  her  veiled 

figure  as  it  had  stood  by  the  bedside,  wrapped  in  the 
14 


2io  Sentimental  Studies 


red,  fur  cloak  ;  and  her  protesting  words,  her  passion- 
ate tears,  seemed  to  form  a  mystic,  indissoluble  bond 
between  them,  that  brightened  all  the  future  with  rain- 
bow colours.  - 

God  had  given  him  back  to  her.  Whether  circum- 
stances brought  them  together  frequently,  or  whether 
they  were  forced  to  live  their  lives  almost  wholly  apart, 
would,  he  told  himself,  matter  but  little.  Their  spirit- 
ual communion  would  remain  unbroken.  Indeed,  the 
prospect  of  such  separations,  proving,  as  it  did  to  him, 
the  sureness  of  the  bond  between  them,  almost  elated 
him.  There  would  be  unquestioning  trust  between 
them,  and,  though  the  world  had  separated  them,  the 
best  that  was  in  him  belonged  to  her.  When  at  length 
they  met,  there  would  be  no  need  for  insistence  on 
common  points  of  feeling,  for  repeated  handling  of  past 
threads,  as  was  customary  with  ordinary  friendships. 
Since  each  could  read  the  other's  heart,  that  sure 
intuition  born  of  chastened,  spiritual  love  would  be 
theirs.  If  trouble  came  to  her,  he  would  be  there  to 
sacrifice  all  at  a  moment's  bidding,  after  the  fashion  of 
the  knights  of  old.  Because  she  knew  him,  she  would 
have  faith  in  him.  To  do  her  service  would  be  his 
greatest  joy. 

At  first  the  immobile,  isolated  hours  of  his  convales- 
cence made  all  these  things  appear  simple  and  inevita- 
ble, like  the  events  of  a  great  dream.  As  time  went 
on,  however,  he  grew  to  chafe  against  his  long  confine- 


In  Cumberland  21 1 


ment,  to  weary  of  his  weakness,  and  of  the  familiar 
sight  of  every  object  in  the  room  ;  and  in  the  mornings, 
when  Mrs.  Parkin  brought  him  his  breakfast,  he  found 
himself  longing  for  a  letter  from  her — some  brief  word 
of  joy  that  he  was  recovering.  He  yearned  for  some 
material  object,  the  touch  of  which  would  recall  her  to 
him,  as  if  a  particle  of  her  personality  had  impreg- 
nated the  atoms. 

Sometimes,  he  would  force  himself  into  believing 
that  she  would  appear  again,  drive  out  to  learn  the 
progress  of  his  recovery.  .  .  .  After  luncheon  she 
would  leave  home  .  .  .  about  half- past  one,  prob- 
ably .  .  .  soon  after  three,  he  would  see  her.  .  .  . 
Now,  she  was  nearing  the  cross-roads  .  .  .  now,  climb- 
ing the  hill  past  Longrigg's  farm  .  .  .  she  would 
have  to  walk  the  horse  there  .  .  .  now,  crossing  the 
old  bridge.  He  would  lie  watching  the  clock  ;  and 
when  the  suspense  grew  intolerable,  to  cheat  it,  he 
would  bury  his  head  in  the  pillow  to  count  up  to  a 
thousand,  before  glancing  at  the  hands  again.  So1 
would  slip  by  the  hour  of  her  arrival  ;  still,  he  would 
struggle  to  delude  himself  with  all  manner  of  excuses 
for  her — she  had  been  delayed — she  had  missed  the 
turning,  and  had  been  compelled  to  retrace  her  steps. 
And,  when  at  length  the  twilight  had  come,  he  would 
start  to  assure  himself  that  it  was  to  be  to-morrow,  and 
sink  into  a  fitful  dozing,  recounting  waking  dreams  of 
her,  subtly  intoxicating. 


212  Sentimental  Studies 


In  April  came  a  foretaste  of  summer,  and,  for  an  hour 
or  two  every  day,  he  was  able  to  hobble  down-stairs. 
He  perceived  the  box  at  once,  lying  in  its  accustomed 
place,  and  concluded  that  on  learning  that  he  was  out 
of  danger  she  had  sent  it  back  to  him.  The  sight  of 
it  cheered  him  with  indefinable  hope  :  it  seemed  to  sig- 
nify a  fresh  token  of  her  faith  in  him  ;  it  had  travelled 
with  her  back  to  Cockermouth  on  that  wonderful  day 
which  had  brought  them  together  ;  and  now,  in  his 
eyes,  it  was  invested  with  a  new  preciousness.  He 
unlocked  it,  and  somehow,  to  discover  that  its  contents 
had  not  been  disturbed,  was  a  keen  disappointment. 
He  longed  for  proof  that  she  had  been  curious  to  look 
into  it,  that  she  had  thus  been  able  to  realise  how  he 
had  prized  every  tiny  object  that  had  been  consecrated 
for  him  by  her.  Then  it  flashed  across  him  that  she 
herself  might  have  brought  the  box  back,  and,  fearing 
to  disturb  him,  had  gone  home  again  without  asking 
to  see  him.  All  that  evening  he  brooded  over  this 
supposition  ;  yet  shrank  from  putting  any  question  to 
Mrs.  Parkin.  But  the  following  morning,  a  sudden 
impulse  overcame  his  repugnance  ;  and  the  next  mo- 
ment he  had  learned  the  truth.  Untouched,  unmoved, 
the  box  had  remained  all  the  while — she  had  never 
taken  it — she  had  forgotten  it.  And  depression  swept 
through  him  ;  for  it  seemed  that  his  ideal  had  tottered. 

His  prolonged  isolation  and  his  physical  lassitude 
had  quickened  his  emotions  to  an  abnormal  sensibility, 


In  Cumberland  213 

and  had  led  him  to  a  constant  fingering,  as  it  were,  of 
his  successive  sentimental  phases.  And  these,  since 
they  constituted  his  sole  diversion,  he  had  unconsciously 
come  to  regard  as  of  supreme  importance.  The  cum- 
bersome, complex  details  of  life  in  the  outside  world 
had  assumed  the  simplification  of  an  indistinct  back- 
ground ;  in  his  vision  of  her  figure  he  had  perceived 
no  perspective. 

But  now  the  grain  of  doubt  was  sown  ;  it  germi- 
nated insidiously  ;  and  soon,  the  whole  complexion  of 
his  attitude  towards  her  was  transformed.  All  at  once 
he  saw  a  whole  network  of  unforeseen  obstacles,  beset- 
ting each  detail  of  the  prospect  he  had  been  planning. 
Swarming  uncertainty  fastened  on  him  at  every  turn  ; 
till  at  last,  goaded  to  desperation,  he  stripped  the  gild- 
ing from  the  accumulated  fabric  of  his  idealised  future. 
:  And  then  his  passion  for  her  flamed  up — ardent, 
unreasoning,  human.  After  all,  he  loved  as  other  men 
loved — that  was  the  truth  ;  the  rest  was  mere  calfish 
meandering.  Stubbornly  he  vindicated  to  himself  his 
right  to  love  her.  .  .  .  He  was  a  man — a  creature 
of  flesh  and  blood,  and  every  fibre  within  him  was  cry- 
ing out  for  her — for  the  sight  of  her  face  ;  the  sound 
of  her  voice  ;  the  clasp  of  her  hand.  Body  and  soul 
he  loved  her  ;  body  and  soul  he  yearned  for  her.  .  .  . 
She  had  come  back  to  him,  she  was  his  again — with 
passionate  tears  she  had  told  him  that  she  loved  him. 
To  fight  for  her,  he  was  ready  to  abandon  all  else.  At 


214  Sentimental  Studies 


the  world's  laws  he  gibed  bitterly  ;  before  God  they 
were  man  and  wife. 

The  knowledge  that  it  lay  in  his  power  to  make  her 
his  for  life,  to  bind  her  to  him  irrevocably,  brought  him 
intoxicating  relief.  Henceforward  he  would  live  on, 
but  for  that  end.  Existence  without  her  would  be 
dreary,  unbearable.  He  would  resign  his  living  and 
leave  the  Church.  Together  they  would  go  away, 
abroad  ;  he  would  find  some  work  to  do  in  the  great 
cities  of  Australia.  .  .  .  She  was  another  man's 
wife — but  the  sin  would  be  his — his,  not  hers — God 
would  so  judge  it ;  and  for  her  sake  he  would  suffer 
the  punishment.  Besides,  he  told  himself  exultantly, 
the  sin,  was  it  not  already  committed  ?  "  Whosoever 
looketh  on  a  woman  to  lust  after  her,  hath  committed 
adultery  with  her  already  in  his  heart. ' ' 

He  would  go  to  her,  say  to  her  simply  that  he  was 
come  for  her.  It  should  be  done  openly,  honestly  in 
the  full  light  of  day.  New  strength  and  deep-rooted 
confidence  glowed  within  him.  The  wretched  vacilla- 
tion of  his  former  self  was  put  away  like  an  old  gar- 
ment. Once  more  he  sent  her  words  of  love  sounding 
in  his  ears — the  words  that  had  made  them  man  and 
wife  before  God.  And  on,  the  train  of  his  thoughts 
whirled  ;  visions  of  a  hundred  scenes  flitted  before  his 
eyes — he  and  she  together  as  man  and  wife,  in  a  new 
home  across  the  seas,  where  the  past  was  all  forgotten, 


In  Cumberland  215 

and  the  present  was  redolent  of  the  sure  joy  of  perfect 
love. 


He  was  growing  steadily  stronger.  Pacing  the  floor 
of  his  room,  or  the  gravel-path  before  the  house,  when 
the  sun  was  shining,  each  day  he  would  methodically 
measure  the  progress  of  his  strength.  He  hinted  of  a 
long  sea  voyage  to  the  doctor  ;  the  man  declared  that 
it  would  be  madness  to  start  before  ten  days  had 
elapsed.  Ten  days — the  stretch  of  time  seemed  ab- 
surd, intolerable.  But  a  quantity  of  small  matters  re- 
lating to  the  parish  remained  to  be  set  in  order  ;  he  had 
determined  to  leave  no  confusion  behind  him.  So  he 
mapped  out  a  daily  task  for  himself ;  thus  he  could 
already  begin  to  work  for  her  ;  thus  each  da3r's  accom- 
plishment would  bring  him  doubly  nearer  to  her.  The 
curate,  who  had  been  taking  his  duty,  came  once  or 
twice  at  his  request  to  help  him  ;  for  he  was  jealously 
nursing  his  small  stock  of  strength.  He  broke  the 
news  of  his  approaching  departure  to  Mrs.  Parkin,  and 
asked  her  to  accept  the  greater  portion  of  his  furniture, 
as  an  inadequate  token  of  his  gratitude  towards  her 
for  all  she  had  done  for  him.  The  good  creature  wept 
copiously,  pestered  him  with  questions  concerning  his 
destination,  and  begged  him  to  give  her  news  of  him 
in  the  future.  Next  he  sent  for  a  dealer  from  Cocker- 
mouth  to  buy  the  remainder,  and  disputed  with  him 
the  price  of  each  object  tenaciously. 


216  Sentimental  Studies 


One  afternoon  his  former  rector  appeared,  and  with 
tremulous  cordiality  wished  him  God-speed,  assuming 
that  the  sea  voyage  was  the  result  of  the  doctor's  advice. 
And  it  was  when  the  old  man  was  gone,  and  he  was 
alone  again,  that,  for  the  first  time,  with  a  spasm  of 
pain,  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  deception  he  was 
practising.  But  some  irresistible  force  within  him 
urged  him  forward — he  was  powerless — to  look  back 
was  impossible  now — there  was  more  yet  to  be  done — 
he  must  go  on — there  was  no  time  to  stop  to  think. 
So  to  deaden  the  rising  conscience-pangs  he  fiercely  re- 
minded himself  that  now,  but  five  days  more  separated 
her  from  him.  He  sat  down  to  write  to  his  bishop  and 
resign  his  living,  struggling  with  ambiguous,  formal 
phrases,  impetuously  attributing  to  his  physical  weak- 
ness his  inability  to  frame  them. 

The  letter  at  length  finished,  instinctively  dreading 
fresh  gnawings  of  uneasiness,  he  forced  himself  fever- 
ishly into  thinking  of  plans  for  the  future,  busying  his 
mind  with  time-tables,  searching  for  particulars  of 
steamers,  turning  over  the  leaves  of  his  bank-book. 
All  the  money  which  his  father  had  left  to  him  had  re- 
mained untouched  ;  for  three  years  they  could  live  com- 
fortably on  the  capital  ;  meanwhile  he  would  have 
found  some  work. 

At  last,  when,  with  the  growing  twilight,  the  hills 
outside  were  hurriedly  darkening,  he  sank  back  wearily 
in  his  chair.  And  all  at  once  he  perceived  with  dis- 


In  Cumberland  217 

may  that  nothing  remained  for  him  to  do,  nothing  with 
which  he  could  occupy  his  mind.  For  the  moment  he 
was  alone  with  himself,  and  looking  backwards,  realisa- 
tion of  the  eager  facility  with  which  he  had  succes- 
sively severed  each  link,  and  the  rapidity  with  which 
he  had  set  himself  drifting  towards  a  future,  impene- 
trable with  mysterious  uncertainty,  stole  over  him.  He 
had  done  it  all,  he  told  himself,  deliberately,  unaided  ; 
bewildered,  he  tried  to  bring  himself  face  to  face  with 
his  former  self,  to  survey  himself  as  he  had  been  before 
the  fever — that  afternoon  when  he  had  gone  up  to  Beda 
Cottages — plodding  indifferently  through  life  in  the 
joyless,  walled-in  valley,  which,  he  now  understood, 
had  in  a  measure  reflected  the  spirit  of  his  own  listless 
breedings.  Scared  remorse  seized  him.  The  prospect 
of  departure,  now  that  it  was  close  at  hand,  frightened 
him  ;  left  him  aching  as  with  the  burden  of  dead  weight, 
so  that,  for  a  while,  he  remained  inert,  dully  acquies- 
cing in  his  accumulating  disquietude. 

Then,  in  desperation,  he  invoked  her  figure,  imagin- 
ing a  dozen  incoherent  versions  of  the  coming  scene— 
the  tense  words  of  greeting,  his  passionate  pleading, 
her  impulsive  yielding,  and  the  acknowledgment  of 
her  trust  in  him.  .  .  . 

By-and-bye,  Mrs.  Parkin  brought  him  his  dinner. 
He  chatted  to  her  with  apparent  unconcern,  jested  re- 
garding his  appetite  ;  for  a  curious  calm,  the  lucidity 
evoked  by  suppressed  elation,  pervaded  him. 


218  Sentimental  Studies 


But  through  the  night  he  tossed  restlessly,  waking 
in  the  darkness  to  find  himself  throbbing  with  trium- 
phant exhilaration  ;  each  time  striking  matches  to  ex- 
amine the  face  of  his  watch,  and  beginning  afresh  to 
calculate  the  hours  that  separated  him  from  the  moment 
that  was  to  bind  them  together — the  irrevocable  starting 
towards  the  future  years. 


She  stood  in  the  bow-window  of  her  drawing-room, 
arranging  some  cut  flowers  in  slender  pink  and  blue 
vases,  striped  with  enamel  of  imitation  gold.  Behind 
her,  the  room,  uncomfortably  ornamental,  repeated  the 
three  notes  of  colour — gilt  paper  shavings  filling  the 
grate  ;  gilt-legged  chairs  and  tables  ;  stiff,  shiny,  pink 
chintzes  encasing  the  furniture ;  on  the  wall  a  blue- 
patterned  paper,  all  speckled  with  stars  of  gold. 

Outside,  the  little  lawn,  bathed  in  the  fresh  morning 
sunlight,  glowed  a  luscious  green,  and  the  trim  flower- 
beds swelled  with  heightened  colours.  A  white  fox- 
terrier  came  waddling  along  the  garden  path  :  she  lifted 
the  animal  inside  the  window,  stroking  his  sleek  sides 
with  an  effusive  demonstration  of  affection.  Would 
Jim  remember  to  be  home  in  good  time  ?  she  was  idly 
wondering  ;  she  had  forgotten  to  remind  him  before  he 
went  to  his  office,  that  to-night  she  was  to  sing  at  a 
local  concert. 

Suddenly,  she  caught  sight  of  a  man's  figure  crossing 


• 


In  Cumberland  219 

the  lawn.  For  an  instant  she  thought  it  was  an  old 
clerk,  whom  Jim  sometimes  employed  to  carry  mes- 
sages. Then  she  saw  that  it  was  Alec — coming  straight 
towards  her.  Her  first  impulse  was  to  escape  from  him  ; 
but  noticing  that  his  gaze  was  fixed  on  the  ground,  she 
retreated  behind  an  angle  of  the  window,  and  stood 
watching  him.  .  .  .  Poor  Alec !  He  was  going 
away  on  a  sea  voyage  for  his  health,  so  Jim  had  heard 
it  said  in  the  town  ;  and  she  formed  a  hasty  resolve  to 
be  very  kind  to  the  poor  fellow.  Yet  her  vanity  felt  a 
prick  of  pique,  as  she  noticed  that  his  gait  was  grown 
more  gaunt,  more  ungainly  than  ever  ;  and  she  re- 
sented that  his  haggard  face,  his  stubbly  beard,  which, 
when  he  lay  ill,  had  signified  tense  tragedy,  should  now 
seem  simply  uncouth.  Still,  she  awaited  his  appear- 
ance excitedly  ;  anticipating  a  renewed  proof  of  his 
touching,  dog-like  devotion  to  her,  and  with  a  fresh 
thrill  of  unconscious  gratitude  to  him  for  having  sup- 
plied that  scene  to  which  she  could  look  back  with 
secret,  sentimental  pride. 

The  maid  let  him  into  the  room.  As  he  advanced 
towards  her,  she  saw  him  brush  his  forehead  with  his 
hand  impatiently,  as  if  to  rid  his  brain  of  an  importu- 
nate thought.  He  took  her  outstretched  hand  ;  the 
forced  cheeriness  of  her  phrase  of  greeting  died  away, 
as  she  felt  his  gaze  searching  her  face. 

"  Let  us  sit  down,"  he  said  abruptly. 

"I'm  all  right  again,  now,"  he  began  with  a  brisk, 


22O  Sentimental  Studies 


level  laugh  ;  and  it  occurred  to  her  that  perhaps  the 
illness  had  affected  his  mind. 

"I'm  so  glad  of  that,"  she  stammered  in  reply; 
"  so  very  glad.-  .  .  .  And  you  're  going  away,  are  n't 
you,  for  a  long  sea  voyage  ?  That  will  do  you  ever  so 
much  good ' 

But  before  she  had  finished  speaking,  he  was  kneel- 
ing on  the  carpet  before  her,  pouring  out  incoherent 
phrases.  Bewildered,  she  gazed  at  him,  only  noticing 
the  clumsy  breadth  of  his  shoulders. 

"  Listen  to  me,  Ethel,  listen,"  he  was  saying. 
"  Everything  is  ready — I  've  given  it  all  up — my  living 
— the  Church.  I  can't  bear  it  any  longer — life  without 
you,  I  mean.  .  .  .  You  are  everything  to  me — I 
only  want  you — I  care  for  nothing  else  now.  I  am 
going  away  to  Australia.  You  will  come  with  me, 
Ethel — you  said  you  loved  me.  .  .  .  We  love  one 
another — come  with  me — let  us  start  life  afresh.  I 
can't  go  on  living  without  you.  ...  I  thought  it 
would  be  easy  for  you  to  come  ;  I  see  now  that  per- 
haps it's  difficult.  You  have  your  home  ;  I  see  that. 
.  .  .  But  have  trust  in  me — I  will  make  it  up  to  you. 
Together  we  will  start  afresh — make  a  new  home — a 
new  life.  I  will  give  you  every  moment ;  I  will  be 
your  slave.  .  .  .  listen  to  me,  Ethel ;  let  us  go  away. 
Everything  is  ready — I  've  got  money — I  've  arranged 
everything.  We  can  go  up  to  Condon  to-morrow. 
The  steamer  starts  on  Thursday." 


In  Cumberland  221 


The  sound  of  his  voice  ceased.  She  was  staring  at 
the  door,  rilled  with  dread  lest  it  should  open  and  the 
maid  should  see  him  kneeling  on  the  carpet. 

"Don't,"  she  exclaimed,  grasping  his  coat.  "Get 
up,  quick." 

He  rose,  awkwardly  she  thought,  and  stood  before 
her. 

' '  We  were  so  happy  together  once,  dear — do  you 
remember — in  the  first  days,  when  you  promised  your- 
self to  me  ?  And  now  I  know  that  in  your  heart  you 
still  care  for  me.  You  said  so.  Say  you  will  come — 
say  you  will  trust  me — you  will  start  to-morrow.  If 
you  can't  come  so  soon  I  will  wait,  wait  till  you  can 
come,"  he  added,  and  she  felt  the  trembling  touch  of 
his  hands  on  hers,  and  his  breath  beating  on  her 
face. 

"  Don't,  please,"  and  she  pushed  back  his  hands. 
"  Some  one  might  see." 

"  What  does  it  matter,  my  darling?  We  are  going 
to  belong  to  one  another  for  always.  I  am  going 
to  wait  for  you,  darling — to  be  your  slave — to  give 
up  every  moment  of  my  life  to  you.  .  .  .  It's 
the  thought  of  you  that  's  made  me  live,  dear. 
.  .  .  You  brought  me  back  to  life,  that  day  you 
came.  .  .  .  I  've  thought  of  nothing  but  you  since. 
I  've  been  arranging  it  all — 

"  It 's  impossible,"  she  interrupted. 

"  No,  dear,  it 's  not  impossible, "  he  pleaded. 


222  Sentimental  Studies 


"  You've  resigned  your  living — left  the  Church  ?  " 
she  asked  incredulously. 

"Yes,  everything,"  he  answered  proudly. 

"  And  all  because  you  cared  so  for  me  ?  " 

"  I   can't  begin  to  live  again  without  you.     I  would 
suffer  eternal  punishment  gladly   to  win  you.   .     . 
You  will  trust  yourself  to  me,  darling  ;  say  you  will 
trust  me." 

"  Of  course,  Alec,  I  trust  you.  But  you've  no 
right  to " 

"  Oh  !  because  you  're  married,  and  it 's  a  sin,  and 
I'm  a  clergyman.  But  I'm  a  man  first.  And  for 
you  I  've  given  it  all  up — everything.  You  don't 
understand  my  love  for  you." 

' '  Yes,  yes,  I  do, ' '  she  answered  quickly,  alarmed 
by  the  earnestness  of  his  passion,  yet  remembering 
vaguely  that  she  had  read  of  such  things  in  books. 

1 '  You  will  come  to-morrow,  darling — you  will  have 
trust  in  me  ?  " 

"You  are  mad,  Alec.  You  don't  know  what  you 
are  saying.  It  would  be  absurd." 

"  It 's  because  you  don't  understand  how  I  love  you, 
that  you  say  that,"  he  broke  out  fiercely.  "  You  can't 
understand — 3^ou  can't  understand." 

"Yes,  I  can,"  she  protested,  instinctively  eager  to 
vie  with  his  display  of  emotion. 

' '  Then  say  you  will  come — promise  it,  promise  it, ' ' 
he  cried  ;  and  his  features  were  all  distorted  by  suspense. 


In  Cumberland  22 


But  at  this  climax  of  his  insistence,  she  lost  con- 
sciousness of  her  own  attitude.  She  seemed  suddenly 
to  see  all  that  clumsiness  which  had  made  her  refuse 
him  before. 

"It's  altogether  ridiculous, "  she  answered  shortly. 

He  recoiled  from  her ;  he  seemed  to  stiffen  a  little  all 
over ;  and  she  felt  rising  impatience  at  his  grotesque 
denseness  in  persisting. 

"  You  say  it 's  altogether  ridiculous?  "  he  repeated 
after  her  slowly. 

"Yes,  of  course  it's  ridiculous,"  she  repeated  with 
uneasy  emphasis.  "  I  'm  very  sorry  you  should  mind 
— feel  it  so — but  it  isn't  my  fault." 

"  Why  did  you  say  then  that  before  God  you  loved 
me,  when  you  came  that  day?"  he  burst  out  with 
concentrated  bitterness. 

"  Because  I  thought  you  were  dying."  The  bald 
statement  of  the  truth  sprang  to  her  lips — a  spontane- 
ous, irresistible  betrayal. 

"I  see — I  see,"  he  muttered.  His  hands  clenched 
till  the  knuckles  showed  white. 

"I'm  very  sorry,"  she  added  lamely.  Her  tone 
was  gentler,  for  his  dumb  suffering  moved  her  sensi- 
bilities. In  her  agitation,  the  crudity  of  her  avowal 
had  slipped  her  notice. 

"  That 's  no  use,"  he  answered  wearily. 

"  Alec,  don't  be  angry  with  me.  Can't  we  be 
friends  ?  Don't  you  see  yourself  now  that  it  was  mad, 


224  Sentimental  Studies 


absurd  ?  "  she  argued,  eager  to  reinstate  herself  in  his 
eyes.  Then,  as  he  made  no  answer,  "  Let  us  be  friends, 
Alec,  and  you  will  go  back  to  Scarsdale,  when  you  are 
well  and  strong.  You  will  give  up  nothing  for  my 
sake.  I  should  not  wish  that,  you  know,  Alec." 

' '  Yes, ' '  he  assented  mechanically,  ' '  I  shall  go 
back." 

"I  shall  always  think  of  this  morning,"  she  con- 
tinued, growing  sentimentally  remorseful  as  the  sensa- 
tion of  rising  relief  pervaded  her.  "And  you  will 
soon  forget  all  about  it,"  she  added,  with  a  cheeriness 
of  tone  that  rang  false  ;  and  paused,  awaiting  his 
answer. 

"  And  I  shall  forget  all  about  it,"  he  repeated  after 
her. 

To  mask  her  disappointment,  she  assumed  a  silly, 
nervous  gaiety. 

' '  And  I  shall  keep  it  quite  secret  that  you  were  so 
naughty  as  to  ask  me  to  run  away  with  you.  I  sha'n't 
even  tell  Jim." 

He  nodded  stupidly. 

With  a  thin,  empty  smile  on  her  face,  she  was  de- 
bating how  best  to  part  with  him,  when,  of  a  sudden, 
he  rose,  and,  without  a  word,  walked  out  of  the  room. 

He  strode  away  across  the  lawn,  and,  as  she  watched 
his  retreating  figure,  she  felt  for  him  a  shallow  com- 
passion, not  unmingled  with  contempt. 


MODERN   MELODRAMA. 


THE  pink  shade  of  a  single  lamp  supplied  an  air 
of  subdued  mystery  ;  the  fire  burned  red  and 
still ;  in  place  of  door  and  windows  hung  curtains, 
obscure,  formless ;  the  furniture,  dainty,  but  sparse, 
stood  detached  and  inco-ordinate  like  the  furniture  of  a 
stage-scene ;  the  atmosphere  was  heavy  with  heat, 
and  a  scent  of  stale  tobacco ;  some  cut  flowers,  half- 
withered,  tissue-paper  still  wrapping  their  stalks,  lay 
on  a  gilt,  cane-bottomed  chair. 

' '  Will  you  give  me  a  sheet  of  paper,  please  ? ' ' 
He  had  crossed  the  room,  to  seat  himself  before  the 
principal  table.     He  wore  a  fur-lined  overcoat,  and  he. 
was  tall,   and  broad,  and  bald  ;    a  sleek    face,   made 
grave  by  gold-rimmed  spectacles. 

The  other  man  was  in  evening  dress ;  his  back 
leaning  against  the  mantelpiece,  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  he  was  moodily  scraping  the  hearth-rug  with 
his  toe.  Clean-shaved  ;  stolid  and  coarsely  regular 
features  ;  black,  shiny  hair,  flattened  on  to  his  head  ; 
undersized  eyes,  moist  and  glistening  ;  the  tint  of  his 
face  uniform,  the  tint  of  discoloured  ivory  ;  he  looked 

a  man  who  ate  well  and  lived  hard. 
>s  225 


226  Sentimental  Studies 


' '  Certainly,  sir,  certainly, ' '  and  he  started  to  hurry 
about  the  room. 

"Daisy,"  he  exclaimed  roughly,  a  moment  later, 
' '  where  the  deuce  do  you  keep  the  note-paper  ?  ' ' 

"  I  don't  know  if  there  is  any,  but  the  girl  always 
has  some. ' '  She  spoke  in  a  slow  tone — insolent  and 
fatigued. 

A  couple  of  bed-pillows  were  supporting  her  head, 
and  a  scarlet  plush  cloak,  trimmed  with  white  down, 
was  covering  her  feet,  as  she  lay  curled  on  the  sofa. 
The  fire-light  glinted  on  the  metallic  gold  of  her  hair, 
which  clashed  with  the  black  of  her  eyebrows  ;  and  the 
full,  blue  eyes,  wide-set,  contradicted  the  hard  line  of 
her  vivid-red  lips.  She  drummed  her  fingers  on  the 
sofa-edge,  nervously. 

"  Never  mind,"  said  the  bald  man  shortly,  producing 
a  note-book  from  his  breast  pocket,  and  tearing  a  leaf 
from  it. 

He  wrote,  and  the  other  two  stayed  silent ;  the  man 
returned  to  the  hearth-rug,  lifting  his  coat-tails  under 
his  arms  ;  the  girl  went  on  drumming  the  sofa-edge. 

"There,"  sliding  back  his  chair,  and  looking  from 
the  one  to  the  other,  evidently  uncertain  which  of  the 
two  he  should  address.  "Here  is  the  prescription. 
Get  it  made  up  to-night,  a  tablespoonful  at  a  time,  in  a 
wineglassful  of  water  at  lunch-time,  at  dinner-time,  and 
before  going  to  bed.  Go  on  with  the  port  wine  twice 
a  day,  and  "  (to  the  girl  deliberately  and  distinctly) 


Modern  Melodrama  227 

"you  must  keep  quite  quiet  ;  avoid  all  sort  of  excite- 
ment— that  is  extremely  important.  Of  course  you 
must  on  no  account  go  out  at  night.  Go  to  bed  early, 
take  regular  meals,  and  keep  always  warm." 

"  I  say,"  broke  in  the  girl,  "  tell  us,  it  is  n't  bad — 
dangerous,  I  mean  ?  " 

"  Dangerous  ! — no,  not  if  you  do  what  I  tell  you." 

He  glanced  at  his  watch,  and  rose,  buttoning  his 
coat. 

"  Good-evening,"  he  said  gravely. 

At  first  she  paid  no  heed  ;  she  was  vacantly  staring 
before  her  ;  then,  suddenly  conscious  that  he  was  wait- 
ing, she  looked  up  at  him. 

"  Good-night,  doctor." 

She  held  out  her  hand,  and  he  took  it. 

"  I  '11  get  all  right,  won't  I?  "  she  asked,  still  look- 
ing up  at  him. 

"All  right — of  course  you  will — of  course.  But 
remember  you  must  do  what  I  tell  you." 

The  other  man  handed  him  his  hat  and  umbrella, 
opened  the  door  for  him,  and  it  closed  behind  them. 

The  girl  remained  quiet,  sharply  blinking  her  eyes, 
— her  whole  expression  eager,  intense. 

A  murmur  of  voices,  a  muffled  tread  of  footsteps 
descending  the  stairs — the  gentle  shutting  of  a  door- 
stillness. 

She  raised  herself  on  her  elbow,  listening  ;  the  cloak 


228  Sentimental  Studies 


slipped  noiselessly  to  the  floor.  Quickly  her  arm  shot 
out  to  the  bell-rope  ;  she  pulled  it  violently  ;  waited, 
expectant ;  and  pulled  again. 

A  slatternly  figure  appeared — a  woman  of  middle  age 
— her  arms,  bared  to  the  elbows,  smeared  with  dirt ;  a 
grimy  apron  over  her  knees. 

"  What 's  up  ? — I  was  smashin'  coal,"  she  explained. 

"  Come  here,"  hoarsely  whispered  the  girl — "  here — 
no — nearer — quite  close.  Where  's  he  gone?  " 

"Gone?  'oo?" 

"  That  man  that  was  here." 

"I  s'ppose  'ee 's  in  the  down-stairs  room.  I  ain't 
'card  the  front  door  slam." 

"  And  Dick,  where  's  he  ?  " 

"  They  're  both  in  there  together,  I  s'ppose." 

"  I  want  you  to  go  down — quietly — without  making 
a  noise — listen  at  the  door — come  up,  and  tell  me  what 
they  're  saying." 

"What?  Down  there?"  jerking  her  thumb  over 
her  shoulder. 

"Yes,  of  course — at  once,"  answered  the  girl,  im- 
patiently. 

"  And  if  they  catches  me — a  nice  fool  I  looks.  No, 
I  'm  jest  blowed  if  I  do  !  "  she  concluded.  "  What- 
ever 's  up?  " 

"  You  must,"  the  girl  broke  out  excitedly.  "  I  tell 
,  you  must." 

"Must — must — an'  if  I  do,  what  am  I  goin'  to  get 


Modern  Melodrama  229 

out  of  it?"  She  paused,  reflecting;  then  added: 
"  I^ook  'ere — I  tell  yer  what — I  '11  do  it  for  half  a  quid, 
there!" 

"Yes — yes — all  right — only  make  haste." 

"An'  'ow  d'  I  know  as  I  '11  git  it?"  she  objected 
doggedly.  "It  's  a  jolly  risk,  yer  know." 

The  girl  sprang  up,  flushed  and  feverish. 

"  Quick — or  he  '11  be  gone.  I  don't  know  where  it 
is — but  you  shall  have  it — I  promise — quick — please 
go — quick. ' ' 

The  other  hesitated,  her  lips  pressed  together ; 
turned,  and  went  out. 

And  the  girl,  catching  at  her  breath,  clutched  a 
chair. 

A  flame  flickered  up  in  the  fire,  buzzing  spasmodi- 
cally. A  creak  outside.  She  had  come  up.  But  the 
curtains  did  not  move.  Why  did  n't  she  come  in? 
She  was  going  past.  The  girl  hastened  across  the 
room,  the  intensity  of  the  impulse  lending  her  strength. 

"Come — come  in!"  she  gasped.  "Quick — I  'm 
slipping  !  " 

She  struck  at  the  wall ;  but  with  the  flat  of  her  hand, 
for  there  was  no  grip.  The  woman  bursting  in, 
caught  her,  and  led  her  back  to  the  sofa. 

"There,  there,  dearie,"  tucking  the  cloak  round  her 
feet.  "  Lift  up  the  piller,  my  'ands  are  that  mucky. 
Will  yer  'ave  any  thin'  ?  " 


230  Sentimental  Studies 

She  shook  her  head.  "It  's  gone,"  she  muttered. 
"  Now — tell  me." 

"  Tell  yer  ? — tell  yer  what  ?  Why — why — there  ain't 
jest  nothin'  to  tell  yer." 

"  What  were  they  saying?     Quick  !  " 

"I  didn't  'ear  nothin'.  They  were  talking  about 
some  ballet- woman." 

The  girl  began  to  cry,  feebly,  helplessly,  like  a  child 
in  pain. 

"  You  might  tell  me,  lyiz.  You  might  tell  me.  I  've 
been  a  good  sort  to  j^ou." 

"That  yer  'ave.  I  knows  yer  'ave,  dearie.  There 
there,  don't  yer  take  on  like  that.  Yer  '11  only  make 
yerself  bad  again." 

"Tell  me — tell  me,"  she  wailed.  "I  've  been  a  good 
sort  to  you,  I^iz." 

"Well,  they  was  n't  talkin'  of  no  ballet-woman — 
that's  straight,"  the  woman  blurted  out  savagely. 

"What  did  he  say? — tell  me."  Her  voice  was 
weaker  now. 

"  I  can't  tell  yer — don't  yer  ask  me — for  God's  sake, 
don't  yer  ask  me  !  " 

With  a  low  crooning  the  girl  cried  again. 

"  Oh  !  for  God's  sake,  don't  yet  take  on  like  that ! — 
it 's  awful — I  can't  stand  it  !  There,  dearie,  stop  that 
cryin'  an'  I  '11  tell  yer— I  will  indeed.  It  was  jest  this 
way — I  slips  my  shoes  off,  an'  I  goes  down  as  careful — 
jest  as  careful  as  a  cat— an'  when  I  gets  to  the  door  I 


Modern  Melodrama 


crouches  myself  down,  listenin'  as  'ard  as  ever  I  could. 
The  first  thing  as  I  'ears  was  Mr.  Dick  speakin'  thick- 
like — like  as  if  'ee  'd  bin  drinkin' — an'  t'  other  chap 
'ee  says  somethin'  about  lungs,  using  some  long  word 
— I  missed  that — there  was  a  van  or  somethin'  rack- 
ettin'  on  the  road.  Then  'ee  says  '  gallopin',  gallopin',' 
jest  like  as  if  'ee  was  talkin'  of  a  'orse.  An'  Mr.  Dick, 
'ee  says,  'ain't  there  no  chance — no  'ow?'  and  'ee 
give  a  sort  of  a  grunt.  I  was  awful  sorry  for  'im,  that 
I  was,  'ee  must  'ave  been  crool  bad,  'ee  's  mostly  so 
quiet-like,  ain't  'ee?  An',  in  a  minute,  'ee  sort  o' 
groans  out  somethin',  an'  t'  other  chap  'ee  answer 
'im  quite  cool-like,  that  'ee  don't  properly  know  : 
but,  anyways,  it  'ud  be  over  afore  the  end  of  February. 
There,  I  've  done  it.  Oh  !  dearie,  it  's  awful,  awful, 
that  's  jest  what  it  is.  An'  I  'ad  no  intention  to  tell 
yer — not  a  blessed  word — that  I  did  n't — may  God 
strike  me  blind  if  I  did  !  Some  'ow  it  all  come  out, 
seein'  yerchokin'  that  'ard  an'  feelin'  at  the  wall  there. 
Yer  'ad  no  right  to  ask  me  to  do  it — 'ow  was  I  to  know 
'ee  was  a  doctor?" 

She  put  the  two  corners  of  her  apron  to  her  eyes, 
gurgling  loudly. 

"  I/ook  'ere,  don't  yer  b'lieve  a  word  of  it — I  don't 
— I  tell  yer  they  're  a  'umbuggin'  lot,  them  doctors,  all 
together.  I  know  it.  Yer  take  my  word  for  that — 
yer  '11  git  all  right  again.  Yer  '11  be  as  well  as  I  am, 
afore  yer  've  done — Oh,  L,ord  ! — it  's  jest  awful — I  feel 


232  Sentimental  Studies 

that  upset — I  'd  like  to  cut  my  tongue  out,  for  'avin' 
told  yer — but  I  jest  could  n't  'elp  myself."  She  was 
retreating  towards  the  door,  wiping  her  eyes,  and 
snorting  out  loud  sobs — "  An'  don't  yer  offer  me  that 
half-quid — I  could  n't  take  it  of  yer — that  I  could  n't." 


She  shivered,  sat  up,  and  dragged  the  cloak  tight 
round  her  shoulders.  In  her  desire  to  get  warm  she 
forgot  what  had  happened.  She  extended  the  palms 
of  her  hands  towards  the  grate  ;  the  heat  was  delicious. 
A  smoking  lump  of  coal  clattered  on  to  the  fender  : 
she  lifted  the  tongs,  but  the  sickening  remembrance 
arrested  her.  The  things  in  the  room  were  receding, 
dancing  round  ;  the  fire  was  growing  taller  and  taller. 
The  woollen  scarf  chafed  her  skin  ;  she  wrenched  it 
off.  Then  hope,  keen  and  bitter,  shot  up,  hurting  her. 
"  How  could  he  know  ?  Of  course  he  could  n't  know. 
She  'd  been  a  lot  better  this  last  fortnight — the  other 
doctor  said  so — she  did  n't  believe  it — she  did  n't 
care —  Anyway,  it  would  be  over  before  the  end 
of  February  !  " 

Suddenly  the  crooning  wail  started  again ;  next, 
spasms  of  weeping,  harsh  and  gasping. 

By-and-bye  she  understood  that  she  was  crying 
noisily,  and  that  she  was  alone  in  the  room;  like  a 
light  in  a  wind,  the  sobbing  fit  ceased. 

me  live — let  me  live — I  '11  be  straight — I  '11  go 


Modern  Melodrama  233 


to  church — I  '11  do  anything  !  Take  it  away — it  hurts 
—I  can't  bear  it  !" 

Once  more  the  sound  of  her  own  voice  in  the  empty 
room  calmed  her.  But  the  tension  of  emotion  slack- 
ened, only  to  tighten  again  :  immediately  she  was 
jeering  at  herself.  What  was  she  wasting  her  breath 
for  ?  What  had  Jesus  ever  done  for  her  ?  She  'd  had 
her  fling,  and  it  was  no  thanks  to  Him. 

"  '  Dy-sy—Dy-sy '  " 

From  the  street  below,  boisterous  and  loud,  the  re- 
frain came  up.  And,  as  the  footsteps  tramped  away, 
the  words  reached  her  once  more,  indistinct  in  the 
distance  : 

"  '  /  'm  jest  cry-zy,  all  for  the  love  o'  you?  ' 

She  felt  frightened.  It  was  like  a  thing  in  a  play.  It 
was  as  if  some  one  was  there,  in  the  room — hiding — 
watching  her. 

Then  a  coughing  fit  started,  racking  her.  In  the 
middle,  she  struggled  to  cry  for  help  ;  she  thought  she 
was  going  to  suffocate. 

Afterwards  she  sank  back,  limp,  tired,  and  sleepy. 

The  end  of  February — she  was  going  to  die — it  was 
important,  exciting— what  would  it  be  like  ?  Every- 
body else  died.  Midge  had  died  in  the  summer — but 
that  was  worry  and  going  the  pace.  And  they  said 
that  Annie  Evans  was  going  off  too.  Damn  it !  she 
was  n't  going  to  be  chicken-hearted.  She  'd  face  it. 
She  had  had  a  jolly  time.  She  'd  be  game  till  the  end. 


234  Sentimental  Studies 


Hell-fire— that  was  all  stuff  and  nonsense — she  knew 
that.  It  would  be  just  nothing — like  a  sleep.  Not 
even  painful ;  she  'd  be  just  shut  down  in  a  coffin,  and 
she  would  n't  know  that  they  were  doing  it.  Ah  !  but 
they  might  do  it  before  she  was  quite  dead  !  It  had 
happened  sometimes.  And  she  would  n't  be  able  to 
get  out.  The  lid  would  be  nailed,  and  there  would  be 
earth  on  the  top.  And  if  she  called  no  one  would 
hear. 

Ugh  !  what  a  fit  of  the  blues  she  was  getting  !  It 
was  beastly,  being  alone.  Why  the  devil  did  n't  Dick 
come  back  ? 

That  noise  !     What  was  that  ? 

Bah  !  only  some  one  in  the  street.  What  a  fool  she 
was  ! 

She  winced  again  as  the  fierce  feeling  of  revolt  swept 
through  her,  the  wild  longing  to  fight.  It  was  damned 
rough—four  months  !  A  year,  six  months  even,  was 
a  long  time.  The  pain  grew  acute,  different  from  any- 
thing she  had  felt  before. 

' '  Good  Lord  !  what  am  I  maundering  on  about  ? 
Four  months — I  '11  go  out  with  a  fizzle  like  a  fire- 
work. Why  the  devil  doesn't  Dick  come? — or  L,iz — 
or  somebody  ?  What  do  they  leave  me  alone  like  this 
for?" 

She  dragged  at  the  bell-rope. 

•  •••••» 

He  came  in,  white  and  blear-eyed. 


Modern  Melodrama  235 

"Whatever  have  you  been  doing  all  this  time?" 
she  began  angrily. 

"  I  've  been  chatting  with  the  doctor."  He  was 
pretending  to  read  a  newspaper  ;  there  was  something 
funny  about  his  voice. 

"  It  's  ripping.  He  says  you  '11  soon  be  fit  again, 
as  long  as  you  don't  get  colds,  or  that  sort  of  thing. 
Yes,  he  says  you  '11  soon  be  fit  again  " — a  quick,  crack- 
ling noise — he  had  gripped  the  newspaper  in  his  fist. 

She  looked  at  him,  surprised,  in  spite  of  herself.  She 
would  never  have  thought  he  'd  have  done  it  like  that. 
He  was  a  good  sort,  after  all.  But — she  did  n't  know 
why — she  broke  out  furiously  : 

"  You  infernal  liar  ! — I  know.  I  shall  be  done  for 
by  the  end  of  February — ha  !  ha  !  " 

Seizing  a  vase  of  flowers,  she  flung  it  into  the  grate. 
The  crash  and  the  shrivelling  of  the  leaves  in  the 
flames  brought  her  an  instant's  relief.  Then  she  said 
quietly  : 

"There — I've  made  an  idiot  of  myself;  but" 
(weakly)  "  I  did  n't  know — I  did  n't  know — I  thought 
it  was  different." 

He  hesitated,  embarrassed  by  his  own  emotion. 
Presently  he  went  up  to  her  and  put  his  hands  round 
her  cheeks. 

"No,"  she  said,  "that's  no  good,  I  don't  want 
that.  Get  me  something  to  drink.  I  feel  bad." 

He  hurried  to  the  cupboard  and  fumbled  with  the 


236  Sentimental  Studies 

cork  of  a  champagne  bottle.  It  flew  out  with  a  bang. 
She  started  violently. 

"  You  clumsy  fool  !  "  she  exclaimed. 

She  drank  -off  the  wine  at  a  gulp. 

"  Daisy,"  he  began. 

She  was  staring  stonily  at  the  empty  glass. 

"  Daisy,"  he  repeated. 

She  tapped  her  toe  against  the  fender-rail. 

At  this  sign,  he  went  on  : 

' '  How  did  you  know  ?  ' ' 

"  I  sent  L,iz  to  listen,"  she  answered  mechanically. 

He  looked  about  him,  helpless. 

"  I  think  I  '11  smoke,"  he  said  feebly. 

She  made  no  answer. 

"  Here,  put  the  glass  down,"  she  said. 

He  obeyed. 

He  lit  a  cigarette  over  the  lamp,  sat  down  opposite 
her,  puffing  dense  clouds  of  smoke. 

And,  for  a  long  while,  neither  spoke. 

' '  Is  that  doctor  a  good  man  ? ' ' 

"  I  don't  know.     People  say  so,"  he  answered. 


YEW-TREES  AND  PEACOCKS. 


A  SUMMER  stillness,  redolent  of  stately  leisure, 
floated  over  all  things.  An  indolent  assemblage 
of  huge  clouds,  milk-white  and  swelling,  filled  the  sky  ; 
portly,  sober- toned  oaks  stood  grouped  at  decorous  in- 
tervals across  the  broad,  undulating  park  ;  and  in  the 
distance  grazed  a  herd  of  deer — a  hesitating  streak  of 
delicate  brown.  The  lawn  lay  spread  faultlessly  as  a 
costly  carpet  ;  beyond  its  farther  edge  rose  a  sudden 
blaze  of  pompous  colour — purple  sweet-william,  giant 
fox-gloves  and  hollyoaks,  bed  upon  bed  of  damask 
roses,  dying  in  gorgeous  disorder — a  tangle  of  old- 
world  flowers,  lavender,  dull  gold,  and  faded  magenta, 
clambering  and  twining,  overhanging  the  grass  in 
drooping,  crowding  clusters.  And  the  great,  rectangu- 
lar house,  built  of  rich-red  sandstone,  and  surmounted 
by  the  effigy  of  a  monstrous  lion,  seemed,  with  its  lux- 
urious windows,  and  massive  colonnade  emphasising 
the  entrance,  by  reason  of  its  spacious  solidity,  at  once 
to  complete  and  to  justify  the  opulent  dignity  of  the 
landscape. 

A  pair  of  peacocks,  insolently  gaudy,  were  strutting 
237 


238  Sentimental  Studies 

about  the  grass  ;  two  boarhounds  were  gambolling  over 
the  trim  gravel  sweep  ;  presently  a  footman  came  out 
of  the  house,  carrying  a  silver  tray  loaded  with  after- 
noon tea-things,  which  he  proceeded  to  arrange  on  a 
table  already  laid  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  two  twin 
yew-trees. 

And  then,  from  behind  the  border  of  tall  flowers,  she 
appeared.  The  boarhounds  ceased  their  clumsy  play, 
and  galloped  to  meet  her.  And  she  came  across  the 
lawn  with  a  leisurely  and  consummate  grace,  dreamily 
swinging  by  its  ribands  a  large-brimmed  garden-hat. 

"  Has  Colonel  Hallam  come  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Yes,  my  lady  ;  he's  with  his  lordship  in  the  li- 
brary," the  man  answered. 

"  Will  you  tell  them,  please,  that  tea  is  ready  ?  " 

She  sat  down  in  a  low  basket-chair  by  the  tea-table  ; 
her  fine,  white  hand  toyed  listlessly  with  her  chate- 
laine ;  her  lips  parted,  and  through  her  half-closed  eye- 
lids she  looked  out  across  the  park,  dreamily — dreamily 
as  in  an  old  portrait  you  sometimes  catch  a  woman's 
wandering  gaze.  Her  face  was  still  reminiscent  of  that 
sumptuous  beauty  which  it  had  once  possessed  ;  but 
time  had  faded  its  former  richness  to  an  exquisite  pale- 
ness, a  subtle  harmony  of  tired  colour.  Her  dress,  the 
colour  of  old-gold,  drifted  in  clinging  folds  on  to  the 
grass,  and  the  sunlight  played  gently  with  the  crisp- 
ness  of  her  hair,  vaguely  powdered  with  grey,  yet  art- 
lessly abundant  as  a  young  girl's.  And  from  the 


Yew-Trees  and  Peacocks  239 

fragility  of  her  worn  loveliness,  there  emanated  an  air 
of  delicate,  subdued  sadness,  as  if  the  sensitive  beauty 
of  her  soul  had  constrained  her  to  long,  intimate  re- 
nouncements, as  if  she  had  elected  to  live  isolated  from 
the  crudity  of  the  world. 

Yet,  presently,  as  the  boarhounds  started  to  chase 
one  another  across  the  lawn,  the  far-away  look  left 
her  eyes,  and  a  faint  smile  of  amusement  flickered 
about  her  mouth. 

The  two  men  for  whom  she  was  waiting  came  out  of 
the  house.  As  they  strolled  towards  her,  across  the 
gravel,  the  elder  of  the  two,  Lord  Sheire,  said  hur- 
riedly : 

"  This  will  be  a  great  blow  to  Constance,  Hallam." 

"  I  will  tell  her  about  it  after  tea,"  the  other  an- 
swered quietly. 

Lady  Sheire  gave  her  hand  to  Colonel  Hallam  with 
an  artless  simplicity,  which  might  have  seemed  studied 
had  they  not  been  old  friends.  And  the  two  men  sat 
down  beneath  the  yew-trees. 

They  talked  of  the  English  summer ;  Lord  Sheire 
hinting  at  the  quality  of  the  hay -crop  ;  Hallam  grum- 
bling good-humouredly  over  the  jaded  dustiness  of 
London,  while  Constance  smiled  vaguely  as  she  poured 
out  the  tea. 

Lord  Sheire's  appearance  at  once  suggested  that  con- 
ventional comeliness,  that  sleek, trim-whiskered  middle- 
age,  so  frequent  in  certain  old-fashioned  London  clubs. 


240  Sentimental  Studies 


Every  detail  of  his  person — the  sparse,  silvery  hair, 
carefully  parted  ;  the  unobtrusive,  town-made  country 
clothes ;  the  dapper,  Russia  leather  boots  ;  the  bland 
lethargy  of  expression  ;  the  trivial  precision  of  voice — 
all  betokened  a  lengthy  routine  of  convenient  and  gen- 
tlemanly ease. 

Hallani  sat  with  his  legs  crossed,  stroking  his  coarse- 
grained iron-grey  moustache.  At  a  first  glance,  per- 
haps, he  seemed  physically  unremarkable ;  but  his 
open  face,  typical,  soldierly  ;  rugged,  yet  suffused  with 
ascetic  refinement,  soon  seemed  to  reveal  a  convincing 
personality  ;  reticent,  sure  of  itself;  quick  of  resolve, 
strong  in  quiet  purpose  ;  drilled  to  discipline,  accus- 
tomed to  command. 

Just  now,  while  he  chatted  to  Constance  of  the  Ital- 
ian opera  season,  alluding  vigorously  to  his  antipathy 
against  the  uncouthness  of  Wagner,  his  present  preoc- 
cupation was  almost  imperceptible.  Yet  she  had 
already  detected  it ;  her  husband's  tentative  and  perse- 
vering participation  in  the  topic  had  surprised  her. 

So  she  encouraged  the  conversation  thoughtfully, 
discreetly  glancing  from  the  one  to  the  other,  giving 
free  play  to  her  prompt,  womanly  instincts. 

By-and-bye  she  let  the  talk  languish  ;  and  Hallam 
began  familiarly  to  coax  the  peacocks  with  crumbs  of 
cake. 

L,ord  Sheire  rose. 

"  I  have  two  or  three  letters  to  write  before  dinner," 


Yew-Trees  and  Peacocks  24! 

he  began  diffidently.  "You'll  excuse  me  Hallam,  I 
know.  Constance  will  look  after  you." 

And  he  turned  abruptly  towards  the  house. 

Hallam  continued  to  coax  the  peacocks  ;  but  his 
simulation  of  indifference  grew  all  at  once  maladroit. 
And  Constance  sat  watching  him,  and  wondering. 
After  a  while  he  seemed  to  become  suddenly  conscious 
of  her  silence  ;  for  he  emptied  his  palm  of  the  crumbs 
hastily. 

"  What  gorgeous  creatures  they  are  !  "  he  remarked, 
half-apologeticalty. 

She  nodded  gravely,  holding  his  gaze  in  hers,  while 
a  quick,  apprehensive  smile  flitted  across  her  face. 

So  accustomed  were  they,  in  their  intimacy,  to  the 
reposeful  enjoyment  of  their  familiar  friendship,  that 
his  embarrassment  disturbed  her  strangely  ;  from  her 
habit  of  him,  she  divined  that  it  sprang  from  no  trivial 
cause. 

"  What  is  it,  Colonel  Hallam  ?"  she  asked  abruptly. 
Her  tremulousness  was  obvious,  like  the  tremulous- 
ness  of  an  actress  on  the  stage  ;  but  with  her  it  was  a 
simple  expression  of  impulsive  sincerity,  amply  war- 
ranted by  her  knowledge  of  him. 

"  Cathcart  is  invalided  home,"  he  answered. 

"Well?"  she  exclaimed  anxiously.  The  signifi- 
cance of  his  words  had  flashed  across  her  mind  ;  but, 
for  the  moment,  she  had  not  the  courage  to  inflict  the 
pain  upon  herself.  So  she  waited  for  him  to  continue. 

16 


242  Sentimental  Studies 

"  I  have  been  asked  to  succeed  him." 

She  winced,  a  little  proudly  ;  and  lifting  her  chate- 
laine, fingered  it  slowly.  She  was  thinking  of  all  that 
this  meant  to  him,  not  of  all  that  it  would  mean  to  her. 
And  that  was  very  characteristic  of  her.  The  old 
longing  of  his  for  active  service,  disappointed  during 
so  many  years  ;  and  now,  of  a  sudden,  unexpectedly 
granted — granted  together  with  great  responsibilities, 
with  great  chances  of  distinction  ;  granted  now  that 
he  was  already  on  the  return  of  life,  ffewas  think- 
ing of  them  too,  she  guessed — of  those  reponsibilities, 
of  those  chances  of  distinction  ;  thinking  of  them  with 
an  almost  boyish  quickening  of  pulse,  that  carried  him 
back  to  the  days  when  he  was  a  subaltern  ;  longing  for 
the  thrill  of  command,  after  the  protracted  monotony 
of  official  routine,  against  which  of  late,  he  had  dis- 
covered himself  impatiently  chafing.  .  .  . 

"  When  do  you  start  ?  "  she  asked. 

"To-morrow  night." 

"But  you  said  that  Colonel  Kenneth  was  to  be 
appointed,"  she  resisted  weakly. 

' '  I  intimated  that  I  would  be  glad  to  go. ' '  He 
spoke  almost  inaudibly.  The  admission — it  almost 
amounted  to  a  confession — cost  him  no  slight  effort  ; 
but  he  made  it  loyally. 

And  then,  all  at  once,  she  understood  the  signifi- 
cance of  the  moment.  It  was  good-bye  between 
them. 


Yew-Trees  and  Peacocks  243 

And  he  had  done  this  himself,  chosen  of  his  own 
wish  to  cut  himself  adrift  from  the  old  ties,  to  begin 
life  again,  out  there  in  the  Far  East,  in  a  strange 
land,  amid  strange  faces.  Her  glance  fell  on  his  grey 
hair,  and  on  his  worn,  white  face  ;  she  wondered  hur- 
riedly if  she  had  comprehended  him  aright,  and  a 
tragic  admiration  for  him  welled  up  in  her  heart. 

"  Then  it  is  good-bye,"  she  stammered. 

He  sent  her  a  sudden,  appealing  look,  a  look  of 
pleading  pain,  so  foreign  to  his  face  that  she  was 
scared,  as  at  some  strange  apparition.  But  she  did 
not  misunderstand  him  ;  only  felt  that  many  things — 
the  common  incidents,  the  trivial  interests,  that  marked 
the  flow  of  her  life — were  all  drifting  past  her,  that, 
suddenly,  for  her,  they  had  become  devoid  of  sense. 
And  she  felt,  too,  that  he  had  done  what  was  right, 
because  he  could  not  have  known  how  she  wanted  to 
keep  him,  how  his  friendship  had  come  to  fill  her  life. 
So  before  what  seemed  to  her  the  fatalistic  twisting  of  i 
destiny,  she  made  meekly  ready  to  bow  in  resignation. 
.  .  .  He  was  troubled  now  ;  and  she  was  grieved  for 
him,  impatient  to  reassure  him,  lest  he  should  divine 
the  loneliness  that  lay  ahead  of  her. 

"  Tell  me,"  she  began  bravely,  "  about  your  life  out 
there — what  it  will  be  like  ? ' ' 

"There  will  be  marching,  probably  some  fighting— 
but  most  of  all  organising  of  native  troops  .  .  . 
there  will  be  plenty  of  emergencies  to  cope  with  out 


244  Sentimental  Studies 

there.     You   remember    our    talk  about  emergencies 

.  .  it  was  just  three  weeks  ago.  .  .  .  I  never 
thought  to  get  this  chance  then." 

' '  You  will-  do  well  out  there, ' '  she  continued. 

"Yes,"  he  answered  steadily,  stroking  the  boar- 
hound's  head  meditatively. 

She  was  grateful  to  him  for  that. 

"  I  want  you  so  to  do  well,"  she  said  impulsively. 

He  looked  up  at  her  again,  but  he  did  not  smile. 

' '  I  did  not  think  it  would  be  so  hard  to  go — to  part 
with  old  friends — with  Sheire,  and  with  you." 

"  But  it  will  only  be  for  a  while." 

"  Yes,"  he  repeated  after  her  dully,  "  it  will  only  be 
for  a  while. ' ' 

' '  I  want  you  to  let  me  talk  to  you  about  something 
— now  that  I  am  going,"  he  began  with  a  grave  hesi- 
tation— a  hesitation  that  was  prompted  less  by  irreso- 
lution than  by  the  sensibility  of  intuitive  tact. 

And  she  seemed  in  no  way  surprised,  only  listlessly 
expectant. 

' '  You  remember  .  .  .  here  .  .  .  under  these 
yew-trees  ...  it  was  fifteen  years  ago  yesterday. 
.  .  .  It  was  just  such  an  afternoon  as  this.  .  ." 

She  was  looking  at  him  absently,  through  her  half- 
closed  eyelids. 

"  We  chose  the  better  part  then." 

She  assented  dreamily. 


Yew-Trees  and  Peacocks  245 

"But  you  have  been  everything  to  me,"  he  con- 
tinued. "  You  know  that,  I  think." 

"  Have  I  ?  "  she  queried  vaguely. 

' '  Because  I  am  going,  you  will  not  let  our  friend- 
ship fade?" 

He  was  scanning  her  steadfastly  now.  Her  eyes 
filled  with  tears,  slowly  ;  but  they  did  not  shrink  from 
his.  She  was  quite  unconscious  of  her  emotion. 

And  he  said  eagerly  : 

"  Would  it  help  you  if  I  were  to  stay  ?  ...  It 
is  not  too  late." 

She  stretched  her  hand  towards  him  impulsively. 
He  took  it  in  simple  reverence,  of  a  sudden  compre- 
hending her. 

"No;  .  .  .  it  is  too  late  .  .  .  you  must  go 
.  .  .  I  want  you  to  go  ...  only  promise  me 
that  you  will  come  back." 

"Yes,"  he  said  steadily,   "  I  shall  come  back. " 

And  he  felt  instinctively,  with  a  fierce,  unreasoning 
bitterness,  that  there  was  nothing  more  to  be  said. 

Lord  Sheire  came  across  the  lawn. 

"Will  you  take  a  turn  with  me,  Hallam,  before 
dinner?" 

And  the  two  men  sauntered  away  together,  arm  in 
arm. 

Behind  the  oaks  the  red  sun  dropped  ;  creeping  up 
from  the  west,  a  tiny  breeze  rustled  past,  and  was 


246  Sentimental  Studies 


gone,  and  the  glare  of  the  afternoon  gave  place  to  the 
soft  cool  of  evening.  The  snow-capped  cloud-moun- 
tains glowed  pink  ;  slowly  the  hues  deepened,  pour- 
ing themselves  in  a  gorgeous  flood  over  the  sky 
— cornelian,  saffron,  gold — gradually,  in  flawless  tran- 
sition, cooling  to  thin  yellow,  and  far  away,  across  the 
park,  dusky  and  indefinite,  to  chilly  grey. 

And  there,  where  the  furnace  flared  fiercest,  straight 
across  its  pulsing  heart,  twisted  and  shrivelled,  stiffened 
as  if  its  life  had  been  taken  from  it  in  the  climax  of  its 
agony,  lay  the  black,  burnt  carcass  of  a  tortured  cloud. 
The  foliage  of  the  yew-trees  turned  dark  as  pitch  ; 
from  across  the  great  park,  all  flushed,  floated  a  faint 
lowing  of  cattle.  And  then  there  was  no  more  sound, 
for  the  day  was  dead.  .  . 

Constance  rose,  shivering  a  little,  and  moved  across 
the  lawn  towards  the  house. 


A  SET  OF  VILLAGE  TALES 


24? 


LISA-LA-FOLLE. 


I. 

UP  on  the  top  of  the  hill  she  lived  alone,  in  the 
shed  with  the  peaked  roof.  No  one  could  tell 
you  how  old  she  was  ;  and  only  old  Cauhape  knew  how 
long  she  had  been  there.  Old  Cauhape 's  legs  were 
paralysed,  and  when  the  sun  shone,  he  used  to  sit, 
wrapped  in  sacking,  before  the  debit  de  tabac  which  his 
little  great-niece  kept  for  him.  And  if  you  could  but 
get  him  to  talk,  he  would  narrate  to  you,  in  his 
stumbling,  jerky  fashion,  how  many,  many  years  ago, 
when  L,isa-la-folle  was  black-haired,  and  handsome, 
and  devilish  proud,  the  soldiers  had  come  one  day  to 
gallop  about  the  valley,  and  how  another  day  they 
were  all  gone  back  to  Paris,  they  and  the  officers,  in 
their  great  plumed  hats,  and  red  cloaks  reaching  below 
the  heels,  and  Lisa-la-folle  with  them. 

It  was  a  glamorous,  sinful  life  she  had  led  there, 
with  carriages  and  horses  and  servants,  and  a  gorgeous 
mansion,  where  the  nobles  played  with  dice,  and  sang 
ribald  songs  all  the  night  long,  till  the  candles  sputtered 
low  in  their  sockets — at  least,  so  old  Cauhape  had 

249 


250  A  Set  of  Village  Tales 

heard  tell.  And  many  a  shameful  deed  was  done  in 
that  gorgeous  mansion  of  hers — deeds  over  which  old 
Cauhape  wagged  his  head  solemnly. 

Then,  one  -sweltering  Sunday  afternoon,  she  had 
come  back.  Everywhere  the  land  was  cracking  with 
thirst ;  for  there  had  fallen  no  rain  through  the  sum- 
mer, old  Cauhape  remembered. 

All  the  village  was  going  in  to  vespers  as  she  tottered 
past  the  church  door,  white-haired,  bare-footed,  and 
ragged,  grimed  with  much  travelling,  chattering  and 
laughing  to  herself  the  while  about  things  which  had 
no  sense.  And  some  of  the  lads  had  jeered  at  her, 
and  one  or  two  had  thrown  stones,  and  the  young 
women  had  run  screaming  into  the  church.  But  she 
took  no  notice  of  any  one  ;  just  went  by,  chattering 
and  laughing  to  herself.  (All  the  way  from  Paris  she 
had  come  so  ;  nearly  a  thousand  kilometres  Monsieur 
le  cure  had  reckoned  it.) 

That  evening  the  rain  had  come — a  noisy,  battering 
rain,  and  Monsieur  le  cure  had  found  her  in  the  lane 
behind  his  house,  sitting  drenched  to  the  skin,  still 
laughing  to  herself  at  her  own  thoughts.  And  Mon- 
sieur le  cure  had  taken  her  inside,  and  given  her  food 
and  wine,  and  had  talked  to  her  softly  in  good  French 
— she  had  forgotten  the  language  of  the  pays, — and  by- 
and-bye  she  grew  to  be  quiet  and  reasonable,  and  used 
to  work  for  Monsieur  le  cure,  hoeing  and  digging  in 
his  garden.  And  when  Monsieur  le  cure  died,  out  of 


Lisa-la-folle  25] 

charity,  they  set  her  to  mend  the  roads ;  for  she  was 
strong  and  a  brave  worker,  and  cared  nothing  for  wind 
or  rain.  Four  kilometres  of  the  road  to  Hagetmau 
they  allotted  her,  between  the  crucifix  and  the  thir- 
teenth milestone  ;  and  for  thirty-eight  years  she  had 
tended  those  four  kilometres  of  road,  in  rain,  sunshine, 
and  storm,  and  had  never  missed  a  day.  And  she  had 
gone  to  live,  up  on  the  hill,  in  the  shed  with  the  peaked 
roof;  and  in  the  evenings  the  Annous,  who  were 
neighbours,  could  see  her  digging  her  bit  of  garden, 
and  hanging  her  rags  to  dry  before  the  door. 

But  she  was  still  mad,  old  Cauhape  asserted  ;  for 
she  had  never  again  remembered  the  language  of  the 
pays ;  but  always  spoke  French — the  strange  French 
of  the  people  of  Paris,  with  words  that  even  Monsieur 
le  cure  did  not  know  ;  and  sometimes,  still,  as  you 
passed  along  the  road,  you  might  hear  her  laughing 
and  chattering  to  herself,  just  as  she  had  done  that  Sun- 
day afternoon,  when  she  had  first  come  back  to  the  vil- 
lage. 

All  the  same  she  was  a  brave  worker,  and  never  did 
harm  to  any  one,  and  so  now  no  one  paid  much  heed 
to  her.  Only  she  was  getting  broken  at  last,  and  the 
inspector  had  grumbled,  saying  that  her  time  was 
almost  done. 


II. 


EVERY  morning  at  half-past  seven,  and  every 
evening  at  half-past  six,  L,isa-la-folle,  carrying 
her  big  blue  umbrella  and  bundle  of  provisions,  used 
to  pass  my  gate.  For  a  whole  fortnight  after  my  talk 
with  old  Cauhape,  I  never  missed  wishing  her  good- 
morning  and  good-night.  At  first  she  would  pretend 
not  to  hear  me  ;  by-and-bye  she  took  to  sending  me 
a  quick,  suspicious  glance,  like  the  start  of  a  frightened 
animal ;  last  of  all,  she  gave  me  a  mumbling  answer. 

A  little  while  later,  as  I  rode  by  her  at  work,  I 
stopped  to  speak  to  her.  She  stepped  forward,  laid 
her  hand  on  the  mare's  bridle,  and  motioned  me  to 
dismount.  I  did  as  she  bid  me,  and  we  sat  down  side 
by  side  on  a  grass-grown  mud-heap. 

"You  are  a  stranger  :  you  are  not  of  the  country," 
she  said.  "  You  are  young,  and  you  have  a  beautiful 
wife.  Stay  a  moment,  and  I  will  tell  you  something, 
something  that  I  have  never  told  to  any  of  them,"  and 
she  pointed  up  the  road  towards  the  village.  "You 
shall  hear  it,  and  then  you  can  tell  it  to  the  people  of 
the  land  from  which  you  come. 

"You  do  not  know  the  great  sun.     No,  how  can 
252 


Lisa-la-folle  253 

you  ?  You  are  young,  and  I  am  old.  I  have  lived  with 
him ;  I  have  waited  on  him  many  a  long,  long  year. 
I  know  him  ;  I  know  the  great  sun ;  I  have  talked 
with  him  :  when  he  is  glad  and  rollicking  ;  when  he  is 
sulky  and  shuts  his  face  ;  when  he  is  angry  and  rages 
over  the  heavens;  when  he  is  sorrowful  and  drips  blood- 
red  tears  on  to  the  earth.  Yes,  I  have  talked  with 
him ;  in  the  old  time,  before  the  great  sun's  life  was 
all  changed;  in  the  old  time,  when  he  and  the  moon 
were  happy  all  the  day's  length,  wandering  about  the 
cloud-mountains ;  and  at  night-fall  they  slept  side  by 
side  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  earth.  The  moon  loved 
him  with  a  clinging  love — a  love  surpassing  the  deep- 
est love  of  woman — a  love  that  you  cannot  understand, 
and  she  was  ever  joyous  and  rosy;  and  they  were  never 
apart,  neither  day  nor  night.  Then,  one  hot  summer 
evening,  the  spirit  of  wantonness  clipped  the  moon,  and 
she  slipped  from  the  great  sun  as  he  slept,  and  did  him 
a  foul  wrong.  And  in  the  morning  he  awoke,  full  of 
red  wrath  to  find  the  moon  gone  from  his  side,  and 
that  day  he  put  her  away  from  him,  for  ever  and  ever. 
"  And  now,  while  the  great  sun  sleeps,  down  there, 
beneath  the  shadow  of  the  earth,  the  moon  walks  the 
heavens  alone,  wan  and  thin  and  wasted,  and  when  he 
returns  with  the  day,  she  flees  to  hide  her  white  face 
for  shame." 


THE  WHITE  MAIZE. 


OLD  Cauhape  said  it  was  the  end  of  the  world. 
j£j<  For  eight  days  and  eight  nights  the  cease- 
less hiss  of  the  rain.  During  the  daytime,  neither  sky 
nor  sun,  nor  breath  of  wind — only  the  grey  veil  of  mist, 
enshrouding  all  things.  The  nights  were  dark  as 
pitch,  and  full  of  the  hiss  of  the  rain  ;  and  from  sunset 
to  sunrise  the  frogs  chanted  their  long,  dismal  mass. 

On  the  eighth  day  of  the  rain,  about  six  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon,  I  went  out.  A  sickly  glimmer  of  muddy 
light  flickered  from  the  west ;  a  breeze  was  shaking  the 
drops  from  the  trees ;  the  road  was  powdered  with 
acacia-bloom,  lying  thick  like  sodden  snow ;  great 
pools  of  yellow  water  were  in  possession  of  the  lanes  ; 
and  new-born  streams,  bubbling  of  their  own  import- 
ance, trickled,  sleek  and  swollen,  across  the  fields  and 
under  the  hedges. 

Kudore  stood  in  his  doorway ;  inside  the  house  I 
could  hear  the  clattering  of  Anna's  sabots.  He  looked 
up  at  me,  as  I  trudged  towards  him,  across  the  spongy 
ox-bedding  ;  but  he  gave  me  no  greeting,  nor  moved 

254 


The  White  Maize  255 

his  hand  to  his  beret,  military-wise,  as  was  his  habit. 
In  an  instant,  it  flashed  upon  me  that  some  great 
trouble  had  come  to  Kudore,  and  I  hesitated  whether 
to  go  forward  or  to  go  back. 

Eudore  was  young  and  brawny  and  obstinate  ;  but, 
as  I  had  reason  to  know,  he  had  been  hard  put  to  it 
these  last  months.  And  the  third  baby  was  on  its  way. 

I  came  close  up  to  him  ;  but  still  he  said  nothing, 
just  held  his  open  palm  towards  me.  In  it  lay  a  young 
maize-sprout,  fresh-plucked. 

I  understood.  My  gaze  met  his,  and  there  was  the 
stolidness  of  despair  in  his  dull  face. 

The  maize  had  come  up  white. 

We  went  inside  without  speaking,  and  Anna  bustled 
about  to  make  me  welcome,  and  knelt  on  the  hearth  to 
blow  up  the  fire.  Marcellin,  the  little  boy,  lay  on  the 
floor,  playing  with  a  cockchafer.  He  had  tied  a  thread 
to  its  hind  legs,  and  was  trying  to  persuade  the  creature 
to  fly.  But  the  cockchafer  was  lazy  with  the  damp, 
and  refused  to  do  more  than  crawl.  Whereupon  Mar- 
cellin dumped  his  podgy  fist  on  the  floor,  and  threw  the 
cockchafer,  thread  and  all,  into  the  yard. 

Eudore  took  him  by  the  hand,  and  the  two  went  out 
to  bring  in  the  geese.  And  when  they  were  gone  there 
was  an  end  of  Anna's  cheeriness.  She  began  to  grum- 
ble, pursing  her  dark-red  lips,  dilating  her  round,  black 
eyes,  scattering  her  words,  as  it  were,  all  over  the  room. 

It  was  while  Eudore  was  with  the  regiment  at  Mont- 


256  A  Set  of  Village  Tales 

de-Monsan  that  he  had  courted  her.  She  was  a  bonne- 
h-tout-faire  in  those  days.  And  now  that  the  luck  was 
dead  against  Eudore,  that  every  year  things  went  worse 
and  worse  with  them,  and  that  most  of  the  place  was 
mortgaged  to  Etienne  Mattou,  the  money-lender,  she 
grumbled  whenever  she  could  find  a  listener,  and  when 
there  was  no  one  she  emptied  her  heart  to  little  Marcel- 
lin,  concerning  the  dreariness  of  life  in  the  country,  the 
cursed  greed  of  the  land  which  devoured  everything  and 
grudged  even  a  tainted  fruit,  concerning  the  spiteful- 
ness  of  God  in  Heaven. 

Then  Eudore  returned,  and  little  Marcellin  drove  the 
young  geese  towards  the  fire,  and  Anna's  grumbling 
ceased. 

Eudore  pulled  the  maize-sprout  from  his  pocket,  and 
turned  it  over  once  more  in  his  hand,  looking  stolidly 
across  at  Anna.  Then  he  threw  it  among  the  fizzling 
logs. 

The  maize  had  come  up  white.  The  fields  were  all 
dotted  with  thousands  and  thousands  of  rotten  sprouts, 
'and  Eudore  was  altogether  ruined. 

At  the  Toussaint  he  was  sold  up,  and  the  great 
tragedy  of  his  life  started  to  drag  its  course. 


SAINT-PE. 


I. 

REGULARLY,  three  times  a  week,  every  Tuesday, 
Thursday,  and  Saturday,  he  and  his  dog  came 
to  beg. 

He  was  very  tall  and  very  gaunt,  and  his  clothes 
were  all  plastered  with  quaint  patches,  and  ravelled 
along  the  hems.  But  he  was  always  scrupulously 
clean.  His  flowing  grey  beard  was  silky  and  well- 
combed,  and  the  redskin  of  his  hands  glistened,  as 
with  much  polishing.  And  his  sabots,  which  were 
many  sizes  too  large,  were  stuffed  with  clean  straw ; 
and  he  always  left  them  on  the  doorstep,  and  came  into 
the  house  bare-footed. 

He  called  himself  Saint- P6 — why  I  could  never  dis- 
cover— for  one  day  he  admitted  to  me  that  he  had  been 
baptised  altogether  differently.  He  and  the  cur£,  and 
the  officier  de  sante  and  I  represented  the  classes  at 
Sallespisse  ;  but  Saint-Pe  alone  vivait  en  rentier.  For 
from  sunrise  to  sunset  he  was  idle  ;  he  had  not  done  a 
day's  work  since  the  war.  He  lived  in  a  ramshackle, 
17  257 


258  A  Set  of  Village  Tales 

one- roomed,  mud-floored  building,  from  one  corner  of 
which  at  night,  through  the  broken  tiles  he  could  lie 
and  watch  the  stars.  But  the  house  was  his  own  prop- 
erty, and  every  Tuesday,  Thursday,  and  Saturday 
morning  he  shuffled  out  of  it  in  his  clumsy  sabots  to 
beg  around  the  neighbourhood. 

Saint-Pe's  dog  was  named  Pluton.  Once  .upon  a 
time  he  had  been  of  the  race  of  St.  Hubert ;  and  Saint 
Pe  when  he  learned  my  name  hastened  to  recommend 
the  animal  to  my  special  attention.  Whatever  Pluton 
had  been  once  in  the  days  of  his  youth,  he  was  now 
but  a  wriggling  collection  of  bones,  encased  in  a  worn- 
out  skin.  I  never  knew  him  venture  to  carry  his  tail 
otherwise  than  tight  under  his  belly  ;  and  whenever  I 
met  him  alone,  or  skulking  along  behind  his  master, 
he  never  failed  to  greet  me  with  an  interminable,  com- 
plicated series  of  grovelling,  Japanese-like  obeisances. 

And,  as  I  have  said,  the  two  came  to  the  house 
every  Tuesday,  Thursday,  and  Saturday,  and  while 
Pluton  sneaked  off  to  rummage  obsequiously  for  refuse 
in  the  scullery,  Saint- Pe  mumbled  out  the  whole  lamen- 
tation of  his  woes,  as  lugubriously,  as  elaborately,  as 
if  he  were  a  complete  stranger.  Four  sous  per  visit 
was  my  allowance  to  Saint-Pe  ;  and  when  he  had 
pocketed  them  somewhere  amid  those  mysterious 
patches  of  his  coat  he  would  clump  away  down  the 
drive,  noisily  praying  to  the  Virgin  for  the  future  re- 
pose of  my  soul.  Eudore  and  Saint-Pe  were  neigh- 


Saint-Pe  259 

hours,  and  Eudore  hated  Saint-Pe  after  his  obstinate, 
uncompromising  fashion,  and  never  altogether  forgave 
me  for  encouraging  the  old  impostor.  "  C'est  de  la 
canaille,"  he  would  repeat  sullenly,  when,  to  tease 
him,  I  related  Saint-Pe's  doings,  "c'estcomme  des 
lagas  ;  ca  vit  sur  les  gens." 

But  if,  in  Eudore's  opinion,  Saint-Pe"  was  a  worth- 
less parasite,  Pluton  was  a  cursed  thief.  One  night 
Eudore  had  missed  five  of  his  young  ducks,  and  he 
had  shouted  across  the  hedge  to  Saint-Pe  that  the 
very  next  time  he  would  shoot  that  cur  of  his  dead  on 
the  spot.  At  which  threat  Saint  Pe  shrugged  his  bony 
shoulders,  and  Pluton  retreated  inside  the  house,  grov- 
elling more  obsequiously  than  ever. 

"II  est  malin,"  Saint-Pe  confided  to  me  the  next 
morning.  "  II  trouve  .  .  .  ce  qu'il  trouve — etcane 
parait  point — regardez."  And,  indeed,  despite  the  five 
young  ducks,  Pluton  looked  more  starved  than  before. 


II. 


ONE  Tuesday,  about  the  time  of  the  sowing  of 
the  maize,  Saint-Pe  never  appeared,  and  on 
the  Thursday  I  missed  him  again.  So  at  sunset,  when 
I  had  done  my  work,  I  strolled  up  to  his  house,  won- 
dering what  could  have  happened  to  him.  The  door 
was  open  ;  a  half-cut  loaf  of  maize-bread  stood  on  the 
table,  but  there  was  no  sign  of  Saint-Pe.  Then  I 
heard  the  scraping  of  a  spade.  Saint-Pe  was  behind 
the  house,  digging. 

He  put  down  his  spade  and  shuffled  up  to  me.  And 
he  began  to  repeat  the  whole  of  his  elaborate  lamenta- 
tion— he  was  miserable  ;  he  was  poor ;  life  was  hard  ; 
he  had  no  one  to  look  after  him  ;  he  appealed  to  good, 
charitable  folks  to  help  him  in  his  old  age;  "and 
now,"  he  concluded,  "my  dog,  the  old  Pluton,  the 
only  thing  that  the  good  God  had  left  to  me,  my  dog, 
my  dog,  he  is  dead."  He  led  me  behind  his  house, 
and  lifting  his  coat,  all  plastered  with  patches,  uncov- 
ered poor  Pluton' s  corpse,  with  his  tail  stretched 
behind  him,  stark  and  straight,  as  I  had  never  seen  it 
while  he  lived.  "  Et  maintenant,"  said  Saint-Pe" 

proudly,  pointing  to  the  half-dug  grave,  "  et  mainte- 

260 


Saint-Pe  261 

nant,  monsieur,  je  travaille."  And  once  more,  from 
the  very  beginning,  he  went  through  his  lamentation, 
concluding  with  the  appeal  to  the  good,  charitable 
folks  to  help  him. 

I  asked  him  how  it  had  happened.  He  jerked  his 
head  towards  the  hedge,  beyond  which  stood  Eudore's 
house.  "  It  was  this  morning,  at  daybreak.  A  shot 
— paf !  "  (And  he  imitated,  dramatically,  the  gesture 
of  shooting.)  "And  it  was  only  one  that  he  had 
taken — just  one  miserable  little  duck.  Only  one.  I 
assure  you,  monsieur,  he  had  n't  had  time  to  take  more 
than  one."  And  for  the  third  time  he  repeated  his 
lamentation. 

Eudore  came  out  of  his  house,  and,  seeing  us,  strolled 
up  to  the  hedge  and  looked  over.  Saint-Pe  went  back 
to  his  digging.  Eudore  stood  silent  for  several  min- 
utes ;  presently  he  said,  half  to  himself : 

"£a  faisait  pitie"  de  voir  une  bete  affamee  comme 
ca.' 

Then,  turning  to  Saint-Pe,  he  called  in  patois  : 

"  Stop  a  minute  ;  I  will  dig  for  you." 

He  pushed  his  way  through  a  gap  in  the  hedge,  and 
taking  the  spade,  dug  out  the  grave.  And  when  he 
had  finished,  Saint-Pe  lifted  the  stiff  carcass  tenderly 
and  placed  it  inside  ;  then  shovelled  the  earth  over  it 
with  his  clumsy  sabots. 


ETIENNE   MATTOU. 


I. 

IT  was  the  fair  at  Amou.  On  the  ox-market,  under 
the  plane-trees,  a  sea  of  blue  berets  ;  an  incoherent 
waving  of  ox-goads  ;  hundreds  of  sleek,  fawn-coloured 
backs  and  curved,  bristling  horns. 

Ktienne  Mattou  had  been  found  murdered. 

A  boy  from  Baigts  had  just  brought  the  news,  as  I 
drove  into  the  town,  and  the  murmur  of  it  had  started 
to  run  like  wildfire  through  the  throng.  For  in  those 
parts  they  all  knew  Etienne  Mattou  ;  and  so  everyone 
could  feel  an  eager,  personal  interest  in  the  crime. 

The  boy  had  soon  related  all  he  knew.  The  express 
from  Toulouse  pulled  up,  close  to  the  level  crossing 
which  his  mother  kept.  The  chef-de-train  and  three 
other  officials  between  them  carried  the  body  into  his 
mother's  house  and  laid  it  on  the  kitchen  table.  And 
the  blood  trickled  all  down  their  trousers,  and  reddened 
the  cloth  which  they  spread  over  the  face.  The  chef -de- 
train went  back  to  the  train  and  walked  along  the  foot- 
board, asking  at  every  window  for  a  doctor,  till  at  last 

262 


Etienne  Mattou  263 


a  stout  gentleman  in  a  tall  hat  clambered  down  from  a 
first-class  carriage. 

Then  the  gendarmes  came,  and  the  engine-driver, 
who  related  how  he  had  seen  something  lying  across 
the  rails,  but  had  not  been  able  to  stop  the  train  in 
time.  The  stout  gentleman  explained  that  Etienne 
Mattou  had  been  dead  for  some  time  before  the  wheels 
had  crushed  his  head,  and  showed  some  wounds  on  his 
chest,  which,  he  said,  had  been  done  with  a  knife. 
After  which  they  all  went  away  together,  and  the  train 
from  Toulouse  steamed  off  again.  And  the  gendarmes 
found  from  some  papers  in  the  dead  man's  pockets,  and 
from  the  marking  on  his  clothes,  that  he  was  Etienne 
Mattou,  and  the  marechal  des  logis  said  it  was  quite 
clear  that  he  had  been  murdered  in  the  night,  and  that 
the  assassin  had  placed  the  body  across  the  rails,  that 
people  might  think  it  was  the  train  that  had  done  it. 

"And  Jeanne?  She's  in  the  market.  I  saw  her 
just  now,  bargaining  for  some  chickens.  Some  one 
must  tell  her." 

But  as  the  old  man  spoke,  she  came  in  sight,  walk- 
ing alone  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  with  a  straggling, 
gaping  crowd  behind  her.  Up  there  in  the  fruit-mar- 
ket, she  had  heard  the  news,  and  she  had  come  straight 
away  like  that,  looking  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the 
left,  with  a  wild,  scared  gaze  in  her  dry  eyes.  She  had 
taken  it  so  strangely  that  the  women  were  afraid  of  her, 
and  no  one  had  dared  to  speak  to  her, 


264  A  Set  of  Village  Tales 

' '  Some  one  must  see  to  her, ' '  the  old  man  mut- 
tered. 

I  went  up  to  her,  and  said,  pointing  to  the  dog- 
cart : 

"  I  will  drive  you,  Jeanne.     The  mare  is  fresh." 
'  "Thank  you,"  she  answered  in  a  hard  voice,  keep- 
ing her  gaze  fixed  on  the  ground  before  her. 

We  got  into  the  cart  together,  and  the  peasants  all 
crowded  round  to  see  us  start,  and  the  old  man  swore 
at  the  boys  and  drove  them  away. 

' '  Will  you  go  home,  or  to  Baigts  ?  "  I  asked  when 
we  had  crossed  the  river. 

"  Home,  if  you  please.  Shall  I  have  to  recognise 
the  body  ?  ' ' 

"  Yes,"  I  answered. 

I  busied  myself  with  driving  the  mare  as  fast  as  she 
would  go.  The  road  was  crowded  with  flocks  of  sheep, 
droves  of  young  horses,  ox-carts  filled  with  calves  and 
pigs  and  poultry,  peasant  men  and  peasant  women,  all 
on  their  way  to  the  fair.  They  stood  aside  as  we  rat- 
tled past,  and  several  bid  me  good-morning.  But  none 
of  them  had  as  yet  heard  the  news.  A  chilly  breeze 
blew  in  our  faces,  and  the  day  was  draped  with  heavy 
folds  of  lowering  clouds.  Jeanne  never  spoke  a  word  ; 
she  sat  quite  still,  her  hands  folded  closely  on  her  lap. 
Was  it  the  stoniness  of  compressed  anguish,  or  the 
stolidity  of  indifference  ? 

I  recalled  Ktienne's  polled,  conical-shaped  skull,  his 


Etienne  Mattou  265 


furtive,  sunken  eyes,  his  thin,  hooked  nose,  his  egg- 
coloured  moustache  and  imperial  ;  and  now  the  engine- 
wheels  had  smashed  it  all  hideously,  and  before  that, 
in  the  dark  of  the  night — I  remembered  how  the  lashing 
of  the  wind  against  the  window-pane  had  awakened 
me — some  one  had  set  upon  him  savagely,  and  stabbed 
him  again  and  again.  .  .  .  And  Jeanne  was  beside 
me,  dry-eyed  and  motionless.  .  .  .  There  was  some- 
thing brutal  about  the  silence  of  this  drive.  For  the  mere 
sake  of  speaking,  I  struggled  to  find  some  ordinary 
phrase  of  consolation,  some  good  word  for  the  dead 
man.  But  I  could  not ;  for  Jeanne  was  aware  that  I 
had  had  cause  to  hate  him,  as  much  as  any  one  in  the 
country.  So  nothing  passed  between  us  ;  there  was 
only  the  monotonous  clatter  of  the  mare's  swinging 
trot. 

A  fierce  haggler,  a  man  of  many  wiles,  a  man  of 
stubborn  greed,  a  man  without  pity,  a  bully,  an  evil- 
natured  cheat — Btienne  Mattou  had  been  all  that. 
Ostensibly,  he  had  carried  on  an  extensive  trade  in 
ham-curing,  buying  the  pigs  from  the  peasants,  and 
sending  the  meat  to  Bayonne  and  to  Bordeaux  ;  but  he 
had  a  multitude  of  other  occupations — he  was  a  money- 
lender, a  horse-dealer,  a  wine-merchant,  a  road-con- 
tractor, and  a  speculator  in  land.  And  many  a  tale  of 
his  ruthlessness  in  each  of  these  capacities  was  told 
about  the  country. 

Jeanne  was   yet  young,  and  I  had  often  wondered 


266  A  Set  of  Village  Tales 

what  her  life  must  have  been,  in  that  dank,  dilapidated 
chateau  of  theirs.  People  said  that  she  had  grown 
evil-hearted  too,  and  that  it  was  she  who  had  turned 
the  cask-binder  out  into  the  road,  because  he  had 
become  slow  and  infirm. 

The  rain  came  before  we  reached  the  house — a  list- 
less, silently  flowing  rain.  The  sky  descended  like  a 
low  ceiling  ;  the  breath  of  the  breeze  dropped,  and  a 
heavy  odour  of  sodden  soil  came  from  the  land. 

"You  '11  get  wet,"  I  said  to  Jeanne. 

She  gave  me  no  answer. 

And  all  the  past  month  Etienne  had  been  busier  than 
ever — he  had  sold  everything — his  lands,  his  ham-trade, 
his  horses ;  he  had  dismissed  his  men .  The  lease  of 
the  chciteau  was  almost  at  an  end.  Etienne  was  going 
to  retire.  In  another  fortnight  he  would  have  been 
gone — back  to  the  Tarn-et-Garonne,  his  own  country — 
gone  with  all  his  ill-gotten  riches. 

That  the  vengeance  of  some  poor  devil  whom  he  had 
out-witted — it  must  have  been  that,  I  thought — should 
have  fallen  upon  him  at  that  moment,  seemed  like  an 
awful  judgment  of  God. 

We  turned  within  the  old  stone  gateway,  all  yellow 
with  moss.  Inside,  as  we  drove  noiselessly  over  the 
grass-grown  drive,  under  the  thick-leafed  trees,  the  air 
tasted  hot  and  rank.  The  house,  every  shutter  closed 
and  the  stucco  peeling  from  the  walls,  stood  desolate, 
rotting,  dead-looking. 


Etienne  Mattou  267 

Jeanne  got  down,  mounted  the  flight  of  green,  cracked 
steps,  pulled  a  key  from  her  pocket,  and  pushed  open 
the  great,  creaking  door.  Then  suddenly  remembering 
me,  she  turned  and  nodded  curtly. 

"Thank  you!" 

"  No  one  has  come,"  I  said.  And,  as  she  did  not 
speak,  I  asked  :  "What  are  you  going  to  do?  " 

' '  I  shall  wait. ' '     She  stood  still  half  inside  the  house. 

"  Can  I  do  anything?" 

"  No,  nothing, "  she  interrupted.  She  went  inside, 
and  the  door  closed  behind  her  with  a  heavy  noise. 


II. 


SINCE  our  strange  drive  together  that  drizzling 
April  morning,  I  have  never  seen  Jeanne  again. 
And  to  this  day  the  gendarmes  have  not  discovered 
Etienne  Matton's  murderer.  Old  Cauhape,  I  remember, 
for  a  whole  week,  grew  quite  garrulous  over  the  mysteri- 
ous crime,  propounded  half-a-dozen  theories  concerning 
it,  and  came  to  the  brutal  conclusion  that,  after  all,  the 
rascal  only  got  what  he  deserved.  Jeanne  lived  on  in 
the  dilapidated  chateau,  she  and  an  old  serving- woman. 
She  was  richer  than  ever  now  ;  for  Etienne' s  life  had 
been  insured  for  eighty  thousand  francs.  And  people 
began  to  speak  of  her  more  kindly,  and  reminded  one 
another  that  her  parents  had  forced  her  into  marrying 
Etienne,  because  he  was  a  man  of  great  fortune. 


268 


III. 


TRUTH  is  stranger  than  fiction  ;  and  so  it  proved 
in  the  matter  of  Etienne  Mattou. 
One  night  towards  the  end   of  the  year,  I  was  at 
Havre,  awaiting  the  Southampton  steamer.     When  I 
entered  the  Cafe  du  Port,  a  flaccid-faced  man  stood  on 
the  platform,  chanting  a  comic  song. 

"  Brunes  et  blondes,  brunes  et  blondes, 
Les  p'tites  cocottes,  les  p'tites  cocottes," 

went  the  refrain. 

"  Une  cannette  de  Strasbourg!"  called  a  voice — 
a  rasping,  deep-toned  voice — a  voice  that  I  knew. 
Those  furtive,  sunken  eyes,  that  thin,  hooked  nose — 
where  had  I  seen  them  before  ?  The  man  sat  alone, 
smoking  a  cigarette,  moodily  contemplating  his  glass. 

In  a  flash  it  came  upon  me.  It  was  Etienne  Mattou. 
He  wore  a  beard,  and  a  workman's  blouse.  But  it 
was  he — that  trick  of  blinking  his  eyes,  of  pressing 
the  ball  of  his  thumb  under  his  nose,  as  he  meditated. 

The  resemblance  was  extraordinary,  yet  the  thing 
was  impossible  ;  Etienne  had  been  dead  nearly  a  year. 

Fascinated,  I   watched  the  man.     Presently  he  be- 
269 


270  A  Set  of  Village  Tales 

gan  to  drum  his  finger  on  the  marble  table.  "  L,es 
pioupious  d'Auvergne,"~  I  had  heard  Etienne  drum 
that  tune  in  Eudore's  house,  the  day  after  the  sale. 

With  an  -irresistible  impulse,  I  rose  and  sat  down 
opposite  him.  His  drumming  ceased  at  once,  and  he 
fixed  his  gaze  on  me,  violently  blinking  his  small, 
sunken  eyes.  I  sat  there,  as  if  hypnotised,  unable  to 
take  my  eyes  off  him.  The  singer  came  and  jingled 
his  plateful  of  coppers  between  us.  I  let  him  pass. 
I  felt  that  to  move  would  break  the  spell.  Then  a 
reckless  longing  to  make  the  man  speak,  to  hear  that 
rasping,  deep-pitched  voice,  seized  me  : 

' '  Vous  £tes  ici  depuis  longtemps,  monsieur  ? "  I 
began. 

' '  Mais  foutez-moi  la  paix.  Je  ne  vous  connais 
pas." 

It  was  the  voice — Etienne' s  voice.  And  all  at  once 
my  courage  came  back. 

"Pardon,"  I  said,  "  mais  vous  me  connaissez  par- 
faitement.  Vous  vous  appelez  Etienne  Mattou." 

Yes,  it  was  he.  Under  the  eyes  he  had  turned  all 
white. 

' '  Voutez-vous  me  laissez  tranquille  ?  ' ' 

"I  want  to  know  why  you  are  not  dead?"  My 
heart  was  thumping  with  excitement ;  I  never  heeded 
the  grotesqueness  of  the  question. 

"  You  are  mad,  I  think." 

' '  What  are  you  doing  here  ? ' ' 


Etienne  Mattou  271 

He  struck  a  match,  and,  as  he  steadied  the  flame, 
while  the  sulphur  spluttered,  his  hand  shook,  rattling 
the  stud  of  his  shirt-cuff. 

"  I  work  here.     I  am  porter  on  the  quay." 

"  But  you  are  Etienne  Mattou.  I  know  you  per- 
fectly well  now." 

He  dropped  the  lighted  match  on  the  table,  and, 
leaning  across,  said  in  a  low  voice  : 

"  Come  outside." 

We  went  into  the  street. 

"  And  Jeanne  ?     Where  is  Jeanne  ?  "  he  asked  : 

"Jeanne  believes  you  are  dead — murdered  by  the 
railway." 

' '  Is  she  still  there — in  the  country  ? ' ' 

"Yes;  and  you ?" 

"And  I ?" 

' '  They  suppose  it  was  your  body  that  was  found  by 
the  railway.  How  was  that  ?  ' ' 

"I  can't  tell,"  he  replied  sullenly.  Then  added: 
"  Are  you  staying  long  here?  " 

"  No,  I  go  to-night,  at  half-past  eleven — to  England, 
by  the  steamer." 

We  were  walking  along  the  quay  ;  a  few  passers 
were  hurry  ing  by,  and  the  water  was  licking  the  har- 
bour-wall. 

"  You  are  starting  without  fail  to-night  then  ? " 

"  Yes,  without  fail." 

"  You  must  tell  no  one  that  you  have  seen  me." 


272  A  Set  of  Village  Tales 

"Why?" 

"  Because  I  am  going  back  there  to-morrow — to  see 
after  Jeanne — to  give  her  a  little  surprise." 

The  light  from  a  cafe  illuminated  his  face.  We  had 
stopped,  and  he  held  out  two  fingers  of  his  right 
hand. 

"Good-night." 

I  watched  him  walk  rapidly  away.  Then  I  went  on 
board. 

Later  in  the  night,  as  we  were  ploughing  across  the 
Channel,  I  remembered  the  look  on  his  face  as  he  had 
bid  me  good-bye,  and  I  understood  how  it  all  happened. 
Etienne  had  met  some  beggar  in  the  dark,  had  changed 
clothes  with  him,  killed  him,  and  placed  the  body 
across  the  rails,  so  that  it  might  never  be  recognised. 
Afterwards  he  had  escaped  to  Havre,  and  had  been 
waiting  there  for  Jeanne  to  join  him  with  the  insur- 
ance-money. But  Jeanne  had  never  come. 


IV. 


I  DO  not  think  he  ever  returned  to  give  Jeanne  that 
little  surprise.  At  least,  no  one  out  there  ever 
saw  him.  Jeanne  still  lives  in  the  country.  She  has 
made  over  all  her  money  to  the  convent  of  the  Sacr6- 
cceur  at  Navarreux,  and  now  she  is  a  cloistered  nun, 
and  will  never  come  out  till  the  end  of  her  days. 


273 


THE  LITTLE   PRIEST. 


THE  new  cure  had  come.  It  was  the  event  of 
the  week  at  Sallespisse.  So,  on  the  Sunday 
morning,  I  called  for  Eudore  and  Anna,  and  we  all 
three  trudged  up  the  hill  together  to  matins.  Outside 
the  white-washed  church  they  were  all  assembled, 
Gaston  L,alanne  and  his  sister-in-law  Marthe,  Beyris 
the  baker,  Dutihl  the  blacksmith,  old  Marcel  Seris, 
with  his  bent  back  and  rosy,  infantile  face,  Saint- Pe 
and  the  rest,  and  a  giggling  group  of  girls. 

Presently  little  Maria,  old  Cauhape*'s  great-niece, 
came  running  towards  me  down  the  village  street. 

"Monsieur,"  she  cried  breathlessly,  "  mon  oncle 
vous  souhait  le  bonjour."  It  was  the  old  man's  way 
of  intimating  that  he  wished  me  to  come  to  hear  him 
chatter. 

I  found  him  sitting  as  usual,  full  in  the  morning  sun, 
with  his  useless  legs  swathed  in  sacking,  and  I  per- 
ceived at  once  that  his  humour,  though  garrulous,  was 
not  unruffled. 

' '  What  are  you  doing  up  here  so  early  ?  "  he  asked 

sharply. 

274 


The  Little  Priest  275 

"  I  came  to  see  the  new  cure,"  I  answered. 

"  Why  should  you  climb  the  hill  just  to  look  at  the 
cure?"  he  retorted.  "How  can  that  possibly  inter- 
est you  ?  I  have  seen  him,  and  I  can  tell  you  that  he 
is  just  the  same  as  any  other  priest." 

I  laughed.  There  were  moments  when  old  Cau- 
hape's  speech  was  very  dictatorial,  and  now  he  was 
exasperated  against  all  this  commotion  in  which  he 
was  not  concerned. 

'  Vous  e~tes  trop  intransigeant,  Cauhape,"  I  said. 
"  Les  cures  font  beaucoup  de  bien," 

"  Parbleu  !  c'est  leur  me'tier,"  he  replied  sullenly  in 
patois.  "  Sit  down  ;  light  your  cigarette  ;  and  let  us 
talk." 

"But,"  I  remonstrated,  "look,  they  are  all  going 
into  church." 

"  I  tell  you  he  is  just  the  same  as  all  the  rest,"  the 
old  man  objected  testily.  "  You  have  the  curiosity  of 
a  woman,  I  think,  sometimes.  Come  now,  will  you 
not  sit  and  stay  ?  ' ' 

Maria  brought  me  a  chair  from  inside,  and  the  old 
man  continued  : 

"  It  is  a  strange  whim  that  makes  you  come  to  live 
amongst  us  here.  We  were  discussing  it,  Dutihl,  Bey- 
ris,  and  I,  yesterday  evening.  We  like  you,  but  espe- 
cially we  like  your  madame.  She  is  good  and  true, 
and  has  a  brave  heart — one  can  see  that  at  once  in  the 
glance  of  her  eyes.  And  we  were  hoping  that  you 


276  A  Set  of  Village  Tales 

would  be  with  us  a  long  while  yet,  and  come  back 
every  spring-time.  But  Beyris  thought  you  must  be 
lonely  here,  away  from  your  friends  ;  and  it  is  a  trouble 
to  Dutihl  that  you  will  always  send  your  little  mares 
in  to  the  smithy  at  Orthez." 

Old  Cauhape"  stopped,  looking  up  at  me  inquisi- 
tively ;  for  Dutihl  was  his  nephew,  and  that  I  did  not 
employ  him  he  took  as  a  personal  slight. 

"  But  you  know  why  it  is,  Cauhap6.  We  have 
talked  of  it  before." 

"  I  know,  I  know.  .  .  .  You  think  he  does  not 
work  cleverly.  .  .  .  You  are  wrong.  Dutihl  is  a 
brave  fellow.  Will  not  you  give  him  a  chance  the 
next  time?  " 

"  Is  he  young,  the  new  cure  ?  "  I  interrupted. 

"  Ah  !  you  will  not  listen  to  me,  and  I  am  an  old 
man.  You  are  no  different  from  all  the  other  young 
men.  What  a  pity  it  is  that  you  are  so  obstinate. 
.  .  .  The  new  cure  you  ask  ?  Yes,  he  is  young.  He 
is  small  of  stature,  too  ;  he  resembles  the  little  priest 
who  was  at  the  chateau  some  years  ago.  .  .  .  No, 
do  not  get  up.  I  was  just  going  to  tell  you  the 
story.  Dubois,  M.  le  Baron's  valet,  told  it  to  me  himself ; 
it  is  a  very  strange  story,  and  Dubois  knew  all  about 
it.  ... 

"  It  was  from  the  seminary  at  Bayonne  that  M.  le 
Baron  brought  the  little  priest  to  teach  young  M.  Paul 
Latin  and  Greek,  and  the  other  languages  that  people 


The  Little  Priest  277 

speak  outside  the  frontier.  He  was  quite  small  of 
stature,  as  I  told  you,  and  quite  young,  for  his  beard 
had  not  yet  started  to  grow.  I  remember  he  had  a 
grave  look  on  his  little  face,  and  large,  dark  eyes. 
They  were  queer  sort  of  eyes.  I  never  liked  the  look 
of  them  ;  it  seemed  as  if  it  was  with  them  that  he  did 
all  his  thinking.  He  used  to  go  by  this  door  every 
morning  on  his  way  to  matins,  and  in  the  afternoons, 
when  M.  le  Baron  and  M.  Paul  were  out  riding,  he 
used  to  walk  for  many  kilometres  along  the  road,  read- 
ing studiously  as  he  went.  Dubois  said  that  up  at  the 
chateau  he  was  very  timid,  and  spoke  but  seldom,  and 
that  in  the  evenings  he  would  generally  sit  alone,  in  a 
corner,  reading. 

"Mademoiselle  Claire  used  to  tease  him,  and  call 
him  her  petit  cure,  and  then  he  would  grow  all  red  in 
the  face,  and  Mile.  Claire  would  laugh  at  him.  One 
evening,  though,  Madame  la  Baronne  overheard  her, 
and  scolded  her  before  every  one,  and  after  that,  Mile. 
Claire  left  him  in  peace  ;  but  she  would  never  speak 
to  him  or  take  any  notice  of  him.  But  when  Madame 
la  Baronne' s  sister  in  Paris  fell  ill,  and  Madame  la 
Baronne  went  away,  and  Mile,  de  Castelner  came  to 
keep  Mile.  Claire  company,  it  all  began  over  again. 

' '  Perhaps  Mile.  Claire  meant  no  harm  ;  but  Mile, 
de  Castelner  was  gay-hearted  and  very  full  of  mischief, 
and,  out  of  thoughtlessness,  she  set  to  work  to  make 
the  little  priest  in  love  with  her.  Mon  Dieu  !  it  was 


278  A  Set  of  Village  Tales 

no  difficult  task,  for  she  was  beautiful  as  an  angel ; 
her  hair  was  golden  like  a  new  louis,  and  she  always 
wore  dazzling  dresses  like  a  great  lady.  M.  le  Baron 
never  noticed  anything,  for  every  day  he  was  busy 
with  his  books ;  but  all  the  household  knew  of  it. 
And  no  one  dared  presume  to  open  his  eyes.  Soon 
the  little  priest  took  to  writing  long  letters  to  Mile,  de 
Castelner,  and  in  the  afternoons,  while  he  was  walk- 
ing along  the  roads  by  himself,  Mile.  Claire  and  Mile, 
de  Castelner  would  sit  under  the  big  lime-tree  in  the 
garden,  reading  them,  and  making  fun  of  them  with 
peals  of  laughter. 

' '  One  day  the  little  priest  went  out  for  his  walk  as 
usual,  and  when  the  dinner-hour  came  he  never  re- 
turned. And  the  next  morning  the  postman  brought 
M.  le  Baron  a  letter  from  him,  saying  that  he  was 
gone  away,  and  could,  never  come  back  again.  There 
was  a  great  upsetting  of  all  the  household,  for  M.  le 
Baron  is  terrible  when  he  is  angry.  He  found  out 
everything,  and  stormed  much  at  Mile,  de  Castelner, 
and  sent  her  away  out  of  the  house.  And  he  himself 
went  by  the  morning  train  to  Bayonne  to  look  for  the 
little  priest.  The  next  day  the  directeur  of  the  semi- 
nary, as  he  was  taking  the  young  men  for  the  prome- 
nade, met  the  little  priest,  dressed  in  ordinary  clothes, 
like  a  young  man  of  the  town.  And  the  little  priest, 
when  he  saw  the  whole  seminary  coming  towards  him, 
ran  under  a  doorway  as  if  he  were  frightened.  The 


The   Little   Priest  279 


directeur  found  him  lying  on  the  ground,  crying  for 
shame.  And  the  directeur  soothed  him,  and  made 
him  promise  to  come  back  to  the  seminary  in  the  even- 
ing. But  the  little  priest  broke  his  word  ;  and  M.  le 
Baron  does  not  know  to-day  what  has  become  of  him. 
"That  is  why  I  always  say,"  old  Cauhape  con- 
cluded, "that  none  but  old  men  should  be  priests.  A 
young  man  in  the  soutane  is  an  abomination." 


GASTON    LALANNE'S   CHILD. 


AS  usual,  before  the  coming  of  the  spring,  Fran- 
fois  Alivon  left  the  country  ;  this  time  to  make 
a  road  over  at  H6pital  d' Orion.  He  was  to  remain 
there  two  months,  Marthe  said,  till  the  sowing  of  the 
maize,  and  then  he  would  be  gone  to  Mont-de-Marsan 
in  the  L,andes,  to  help  to  build  the  new  stone  bull-ring, 
that  was  to  cost  a  hundred  thousand  francs. 

He  was  a  rolling-stone,  was  Francois  Alivon.  In 
his  time  (though  he  was  not  an  old  man  yet)  he  had 
seen  much  life  and  many  cities.  Years  ago  he  had 
worked  at  the  railway  laying  in  Spain  and  Portugal, 
and  afterwards  he  had  become  stoker  of  an  express 
train,  which  crossed  every  night  from  Santander  to 
Valladolid.  In  those  days  he  had  earned  much  money, 
and  spent  it  too,  in  the  gay  Spanish  towns. 

But  one  night  the  express  train  ran  over  a  bank,  and 
many  of  the  passengers  were  maimed  and  killed.  And 
though  Fran£ois  was  in  nowise  to  blame,  the  company 
judged  that  he  had  not  sufficient  learning  for  a  sto- 
ker's work.  So  he  came  back  to  Sallespisse,  the  com- 

280 


Gaston  Lalanne's  Child  281 


mune  where  he  was  bom.  He  was  a  shrewd  fellow 
was  Francois  All  von,  and  within  the  year  he  had  mar- 
ried Marthe  Durand,  whose  father  was  a  rich  peasant, 
and  whose  portion  amounted  to  three  thousand 
francs. 

It  was  with  her  money  that  he  had  bought  sixty 
arpents  of  land — fruitful,  well-moistened  land — down 
by  the  banks  of  the  L,uys,  and  upon  it,  with  his  own 
hands  (for  he  was  mighty  skilful  with  his  hands),  he 
had  built  a  house,  he  and  Gaston  Lalanne  from  Sault- 
de-Navailles,  whom  he  had  taken  to  work  with 
him. 

Marthe  had  given  him  three  children — two  boys, 
who  were  already  at  school,  and  a  baby  girl,  and  once 
more  Francois  Alivon  earned  much  money,  making 
roads  for  different  communes,  all  over  the  department. 

And  at  the  Toussaint  Gaston  Lalanne  had  married 
Jacqueline,  Marthe' s  sister,  and  with  his  savings,  and 
her  portion,  he  had  taken  a  large  mttairie.  adjoining 
Francois'  property.  Every  one  agreed  that  it  was  a 
very  pleasant  arrangement  for  Marthe  to  have  her  sis- 
ter settled  so  close  to  her  own  door,  and  Gaston  to  help 
her  with  the  work  ;  for  Fran£ois  Alivon  was  a  rolling- 
stone,  and  away  during  many  months  of  the  year. 

Between  Marthe  and  Jacqueline  there  was  eight  years' 
disparity  of  age  ;  they  were  very  different  to  look  upon, 
yet,  almost  at  the  first  glance,  one  could  guess  that 
they  were  sisters. 


282  A  Set  of  Village  Tales 

Marthe  had  turned  thirty  the  summer  before  Gaston 
married.  She  was  small  and  slim,  brown-faced  and 
flat-waisted,  as  are  the  peasant  women  of  that  country  ; 
quick  of  gesture,  with  a  sharp  intensity  of  speech.  Be- 
fore Jacqueline  came  to  live  in  the  commune,  I  had 
heard  Anna,  Budore's  wife,  hint  more  than  once  that 
Marthe  was  over-fond  of  Gaston  L,alanne,  and  that 
Francois  Alivon  was  perhaps  not  so  clever  after  all. 
But  Anna  was  an  arrant  scandal-monger,  and  now 
Gaston  was  married  to  Marthe' s  young  sister. 

They  were  a  fine  couple.  Gaston  had  the  strength 
of  a  heifer,  and  the  burliest  shoulders  in  all  the  village  ; 
and  Jacqueline  was  so  tall  that  she  seemed  made 
to  match  him.  "  Saperlotte  !  ils  auront  de  beaux 
mioches  !  "  Dutihl  jested  to  Beyris  the  first  Sunday 
that  the  lyalannes  went  up  the  hill  together  to  mass. 

Gaston,  now  that  he  was  married,  did  things  in  a 
grand  manner — kept  two  pairs  of  oxen  and  a  servant, 
and  every  Tuesday  drove  his  wife  to  the  market  at 
Orthez  in  a  newly  varnished  cart,  with  a  fast-trotting 
chestnut  mare.  And  if  they  asked  him  for  news  of 
little  ones,  he  would  smile  and  wink,  and  looking 
proudly  at  his  wife,  would  answer  :  "  Nous  en  ferons 
des  tambour-majors." 

But  about  the  time  that  Francois  Alivon  left  the 
commune  to  go  to  Hdpital  d' Orion,  Jacqueline  went 
less  frequently  into  the  town  on  market-days,  for  the 
first  baby  was  on  its  way,  and  Gaston  drove  so  fast 


Gaston  Lalanne's  Child  283 


that  she  feared  the  jolting  of  the.  cart.     So  it  was 
Marthe  who  took  her  place  by  Gaston 's  side. 

Gastou  L,alanne  was  a  fine  fellow,  and  he  was  well 
aware  of  it.  "Faux  et  courtois,"  runs  the  Bearnais 
maxim,  and  Gaston  L,alanne,  underneath  his  burly 
good-humour,  knew  that  he  was  a  bargainer,  and  a 
close  man  of  business  with  the  best  of  them.  And  if 
the  women  were  ready  with  sly  smiles  for  him,  it  was 
not  his  fault,  he  would  say  with  a  shrug  of  his  heavy 
shoulders.  Ever  since  he  was  a  boy — the  biggest  boy 
in  the  communale  school,  of  course — it  had  been  his 
habit  to  do  things  better,  on  a  bigger  scale,  than  the 
rest,  and  so  it  was  but  natural  that  his  wife  should  be 
the  finest  woman  in  the  neighbourhood,  that  he  should 
drive  the  smartest  cart,  and  a  mare  whose  trot  the 
peasants  turned  to  watch.  And  if  Marthe  was  over- 
fond  of  him,  that  was  not  his  fault  either  ;  for  though 
no  harm  had  ever  passed  between  them,  Gaston  was 
quite  aware  how  things  stood  with  her.  slt  was  hard 
on  her,  certainly,  he  thought  with  easy  pity,  that  she 
was  left  so  much  alone,  and  that  he  could  not  console 
her,  being  under  obligations  to  her  husband.  Like- 
wise, he  accepted  from  her  as  natural  all  the  little  at- 
tentions which  made  his  life  agreeable  during  the  time 
that  he  worked  for  Francois  Alivon,  and  when  Jacque- 
line came  up  to  Sallespisse,  he  courted  her  tranquilly 
under  Marthe' s  eyes.  But  during  the  latter  days  of  his 
courtship,  there  were  not  a  few  storms  in  the  house, 


284  A  Set  of  Village  Tales 

and  Marthe  grew  full  of  ill-temper  and  bursts  of  rage, 
so  that  Gaston  was  heartily  relieved  when  everything 
was  satisfactorily  settled. 

Now  that  he -had  been  married  six  months,  and  that 
the  course  of  his  life  ran  smoothly  and  altogether  un- 
troubled, he  thought  it  good  that  Marthe  should  come 
often  to  help  Jacqueline  with  the  work  ;  for  he  Was 
very  eager  that  the  baby  should  be  fine  and  strong. 
And  hence  it  was  only  natural  that,  in  return,  he 
should  take  her  into  Orthez  on  market-days,  and  no 
one  could  say  there  was  harm  in  it  now,  for  she  was 
the  sister  of  his  wife. 

Every  Tuesday  morning,  then,  they  rattled  along 
the  road,  and  after  they  had  done  their  business  they 
met  at  the  Cafe  L,aborde,  off  the  ox-market,  and  came 
together  in  the  cool  of  the  late  afternoon.  Marthe  was 
smartly  dressed  in  a  flaming  red  dress,  and  a  silk  hand- 
kerchief to  match,  around  the  coil  of  her  hair,  and  the 
red  looked  beautiful  against  the  brown  of  her  skin. 
Gaston  was  often  merry  on  these  returns  from  the 
market,  and  would  tell  her  long  tales  of  the  regiment 
and  of  his  garrison  days. 

Anna,  Eudore's  wife,  began  to  hint  again  that 
Jacqueline  had  better  look  to  that  hulking  husband  of 
hers  ;  but  no  one  else  thought  there  could  be  wrong 
between  them,  because  Gaston  was  married  to  Marthe's 
sister. 

One  broiling  July  day,  they  were  all  splashing  the 


Gaston  Lalanne's  Child  285 

vine-leaves  with  phosphate,  and  Jacqueline  came  out 
to  tell  them  that  the  dinner  was  ready.  Gaston  shouted 
to  her  that  they  would  be  done  directly  ;  that  there 
were  only  three  furrows  to  finish,  and  turned  to  go  into 
the  house.  All  at  once  they  heard  her  cry  out,  and  Gas- 
ton  called  to  her,  but  no  answer  came.  They  found  her 
lying  moaning  by  the  hedge-side  ;  her  foot  had  caught 
in  a  vine-wire.  They  carried  her  inside,  and  all  the 
while  she  screamed  with  pain,  so  that  the  neighbours  all 
came  in  to  see  what  it  was.  Gaston  hastened  up  to  the 
village  for  the  officier  de  sant6,  but  before  he  could 
come  the  baby  was  born — a  wailing,  weakling  of  a 
child.  The  officier  de  sante  said  it  could  not  live,  and 
Marthe  proposed  sending  for  Monsieur  le  cure"  to  bap- 
tise it.  But  Gaston  grew  all  at  once  very  angry  with 
her,  and  swore  he  would  shut  his  door  in  Monsieur 
le  cure's  face  ;  for  the  baby  would  live. 

But  the  officier  de  sante  was  right  after  all,  and  it 
died  before  sundown.  And  Jacqueline's  blood  grew 
hotter  and  hotter,  and  she  began  to  gibber  about  things 
which  no  one  understood,  like  a  woman  talking  in  her 
sleep.  Gaston  sent  the  servant  into  Orthez  to  fetch 
out  the  doctor  ;  and  they  went  out  alone  into  the  vine- 
yard, leaving  the  women  with  Jacqueline  in  the 
house. 

About  ten  o'clock  Jacqueline  grew  worse,  and  the 
doctor  said  that  Gaston  must  be  fetched  inside.  It  was 
Marthe  who  went  for  him  ;  she  found  him  in  the  stable, 


286  A  Set  of  Village  Tales 


sitting  on  a  heap  of  ox-bedding,  with  his  lantern  all 
guttering  on  to  the  floor. 

He  came  and  followed  her,  though  he  looked  as  if  he 
had  not  heard.  ' 

The  clock  had  struck  twelve  for  the  second  time 
when  Jacqueline  died.  Gaston  had  gone  to  the  well 
for  a  canful  of  fresh  water,  and  when  he  came  back  she 
was  tying  all  stiff  and  still.  ' 

He  said  not  a  word  ;  just  stood  by  the  door  and  let 
the  can  fall  to  the  ground,  so  that  the  water  all  trickled 
in  a  stream  under  the  bed.  Then  all  the  others  went 
away,  and  Gaston  and  Marthe  were  left  alone.  Marthe 
knelt  down  by  the  bed  and  sobbed. 

"Come,"  Gaston  said  roughly,  "do  not  cry  so 
loudly." 

"It  is  terrible,"  Marthe  went  on  sobbing.  .  .  . 
' '  Poor  Jacqueline  .  .  .  poor  Jacqueline.  .  .  . 
she  was  so  good,  poor  Jacqueline." 

Gaston  paid  no  further  heed  to  her  ;  he  sat  down 
by  the  dead  body,  staring  at  it  stupidly. 

"  It  is  terrible, ' '  Marthe  began  again.  ' '  And  I  am 
a  wicked  woman.  We  have  deceived  her,  poor  Jacque- 
line .  .  .  who  was  so  good.  .  .  .  What  shall 
we  do?  what  shall  we  do  ?  " 

"And  the  child  ...  the  child  .  .  .  the 
child  is  dead  too.  ...  I  shall  have  no  child," 
Gaston  muttered  to  himself. 

Marthe  ceased  her  sobbing,  so  that  there  was  a  sud- 
den stillness  in  the  room. 


Gaston  Lalanne's  Child  287 

"The  child  .  .  .  the  child  is  dead  also,"  Gaston 
repeated.  "  It  is  all  gone  ...  I  have  nothing." 

Marthe  rose  to  her  feet,  and  came  close  to  him,  and 
clutched  the  edge  of  his  blouse  so  tight  that  the  stitches 
tore. 

"  Gaston,"  she  gasped,  "Jacqueline's  child  is  dead — 
but  mine,  I  tell  you,  mine  will  live." 

He  remained  still  a  moment,  as  if  he  had  not  under- 
stood ;  at  last  he  stammered  : 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

Then  it  dawned  upon  him. 

"It  is  not  true.  You  lie,  Marthe.  Say  that  you 
lie." 

"  Before  the  Virgin,  it  is  true." 

He  sank  forward  limply,  and  covered  his  face  in  his 
hands. 

"Marthe,"  he  said  presently  in  a  whisper,  "it  is 
you  that  have  killed  Jacqueline  ;  it  is  you  that  have 
killed  my  child.  This  is  a  judgment  for  our  sin.  The 
good  God  in  Heaven  is  revenged  upon  me." 

After  a  while  he  added  : 

"  Marthe,  you  have  no  right  to  be  here.  Quick,  I 
say,  get  out  of  the  house — quick — the  sight  of  you 
makes  me  mad  !  " 

He  gripped  her  wrist  and  threw  her  towards  the  door. 
She  went  out,  crouching  like  a  beaten  animal. 

And  Gaston  Lalanne  was  left  alone  to  watch  the 
body  of  his  dead  wife.  Twenty  minutes  later  he  went 
down-stairs,  and  finding  Marthe  standing  in  the  door- 


288  A  Set  of  Village  Tales 

way,  gazing  stupidly  before  her,  touched  her  shoulder, 
saying  : 

"  Come  and  hold  the  lantern  for  me,  I  must  see  to 
the  Breton  cow,  who  is  in  calf." 

1893—1895. 

THE    END. 


DATE  DUE 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  686  044     9 


